


From Emptiness to Everything

by wildtrak



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Adam's wild imagination, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Atheism, Aziraphale's limited patience, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Blasphemy, Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley yells at God, Crowley's Bad Driving (Good Omens), Discorporation (Good Omens), Dubious Science, Future Fic, Hope, Hot Fuzz References, M/M, Mass Death, Memory Loss, Mind Manipulation, Mind Meld, Minor Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Post-Apocalypse, Reincarnation, Space Flight, Top Gear (UK) References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildtrak/pseuds/wildtrak
Summary: After fifteen years of relative peace following Armageddon interrupted, Aziraphale and Crowley have settled into a quiet but still uneasy new existence. When Heaven decides to initiate the supernatural equivalent of a hostile corporate takeover, they are caught in the cross-fire. With Hell closed for business and Heaven set to destroy Earth, the future of humanity once again rests on the shoulders of an angel, a demon and the Antichrist (who has unfortunately watched a few too many episodes of Doomsday Preppers).
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 41
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am indebted to the following wonderful people:  
> [Coffeemacaroni](https://coffeemacaroni.tumblr.com/) \- for the most fabulous art, and for coming on board in the beginning and supporting me as I wrote the story.  
> [Anka-skier](https://anka-skier.tumblr.com/) \- for contributing wonderful additional art and encouraging me on at the end.  
> [Amiril](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amiril/pseuds/Amiril) \- for being a kick-ass beta and all around champion who has saved my but(t).  
> [ParnoidPerson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanshapedstress) \- for cheer-leading and hand-holding when this was only 30k of jumbled rambling.
> 
> Written for the Good Omens Big Bang 2019. Title is from the John Mayer song "Belief".
> 
> All remaining errors are mine. Spotify Playlist for the story is [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5IsGmKMsI501JAc7NdepGr?si=CnLgjCbgTraNHw9A6SXexw). Tag notes: for the purpose of this story, Minor Characters are defined as anyone other than Aziraphale and Crowley. If you require more information on the tags, please get in contact via wildtrakone.tumblr.com.

At first there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual dripping noises and wet splats of something gooey oozing out of overhead pipes or drains. But that’s to be expected in the downstairs offices. Not even the denizens of hell are safe from shoddy plumbing. 

Crowley notices the dull thudding sound in the middle of a long and boring afternoon. The beat is slow enough to almost be unnoticeable, but he’s always been more sensitive to vibrations than the average demon—snake senses and all. The usual hustle and bustle of Hell continues outside his door, and no one has popped their head in to remark on it, so he tries to ignore the noise and concentrate on the task at hand. 

He hates having to work out of the head office, but recently they’ve had some security issues, (so to speak) so he’s not allowed to telecommute to staff meetings anymore. The unspoken assumption that angelic ears might be nearby if he’s topside was not something he was willing to dispute with management at the risk of disturbing what little peace he and Aziraphale have had since last doomsday. 

While neither he nor Aziraphale had wanted to maintain the status quo, their respective sides didn’t wait long to sweep the whole Armageddon mishap under the rug. In Aziraphale’s case, business as usual returned in the form of some polite but pointed letters with instructions for new blessings and miracles, and some thinly veiled threats. In Crowley’s case, the threats weren’t veiled at all, and his instructions were sent via the same old brain-scrambling information dump directly into his brain—feigning ignorance wasn’t an option. 

They both figured the best way to ensure Armageddon stayed firmly off the table was to keep up the pretense, though it pained both of them to lose any of their hard-won autonomy. While they were on their own side in every way that mattered, compromises had to be made. Like anyone who has worked for a soulless corporate enterprise their whole lives knows, it is easy enough to compartmentalise some things. The lower echelons of Hell seem to have accepted that Crowley is just something they have to endure. Like a CEO in a company buyout whose position is kept in name only but who no one actually expects to do any real work. 

Heaven on the other hand, treat Aziraphale like the CEO’s nephew and nepotism-forced hire, who they’ve stuck in the mailroom for appearances sake. Crowley isn’t sure which of the two of them came out worse off. But they’ve been allowed to keep their main posting on Earth as guardians of humanity, as long as they put in a few office hours. 

The other demons tend to become alarmed when he makes eye contact, so he keeps himself to himself, not wanting to court an outright confrontation. Several of his coworkers are still tetchy about what happened to Ligur—not that any of them had any particular loyalty, they just object to his actions on principle. So now, he’s wasting time on the company dime in a glorified broom cupboard so that no one is disturbed by his presence. 

It’s quieter in there too, but if someone was to put an ear up next to the vent in the corner, they could hear the screams of torment floating up from the sublevels. 

Crowley rests his head on the pipe next to the vent, searching for inspiration in the wailing from below. It’s almost enough to drown out the screaming sound inside his own head when faced with explaining to Hastur the sociological theory behind his planned wiles. Nobody appreciates the subtleties in Crowley’s genius. Well, nobody except for a certain angel. 

Fifty-odd years ago, he’d conceived of the demonic magnificence that is the M25 in a room just like this one, but today his heart isn’t really in it. He and Aziraphale have plans to try the new Greek place that’s opened up a few blocks from the bookshop, so Crowley is a thousand percent ready to call it a day. 

But he has to have something that will wow everyone for the staff meeting at 4:45. Dagon invented 4:45pm staff meetings on a Friday, that bastard, and has been gleefully subjecting everyone to them for the last three centuries. Finding no spark of ingenuity in the caterwauling of damned souls—it all gets a bit repetitive after a while—Crowley rips the page out of his notepad and tosses it in the wastepaper basket. 

He finds himself looking heavenward (a clear sign he’s demoning wrong again—he’s not wondering what Aziraphale is up to or anything, for instance), which is when he notices the crack in the ceiling. A particularly solid thud comes from above, and the top of the broom cupboard sheds a handful of concrete dust and chunky bits right on his head. 

Almost immediately, the alarms start blaring and the lights go out. 

* * *

Aziraphale likes filing. Call him a pedantic bore, but seeing everything organised just so appeals to him on an aesthetic level. He knows he’s only been given this “extremely important task” because the others are at a loss with what to do with him. But he’s not above a bit of manual labor if it means he gets to spend his days rifling through the annals of heaven, digging up any juicy bits of gossip he can find. There’s nothing too contentious thus far, but he has found a few transcripts that suggest there may be more to the Freemasons than he’d originally thought. 

Heaven switched to cloud storage two decades ago, but there is still a backlog of material that needs to be ingested into the ethereal archive. So Aziraphale has been dutifully scanning the mountains of old paperwork that needs to be tagged and categorised and then shredded. 

The generic files on Archangel Michael and Gabriel have some inconsistencies and redacted sections that pique his curiosity. But the Archangel histories and mission reports are stored in another wing of the building with higher security clearance than they’ve given him, so he only has a few scraps cobbled together so far. 

There are dozens of more recent memos referencing something called ‘The Festival’, but he hasn’t been able to puzzle that one out. The only other clues he’s found just led him back to a copy of the screenplay for The Sound of Music, which incensed him enough to file it under Misc. and forget about it. 

The day is dragging on more than it should in a place as supposedly happy as Heaven. But Aziraphale has plans, and he would very much like to get to them. Crowley has invited him to dinner tonight, and was unusually cagey when pressed for details. Aziraphale hopes that just means Crowley is trying to surprise him in some way, and he tries to quiet the nagging voice that suggests it isn’t something good. 

Things are great—better than they’ve ever been. But Aziraphale can’t help but get the feeling that there’s something more Crowley wants to say when they talk about making plans to see a show, or try a new restaurant. 

He’s contemplating sneaking outside for a bagel—or perhaps something sweeter—when a soft beep and the sharp clunk of a deadbolt locking draws him out to the front desk. The little green light that usually blinks at him from the access panel is red and holding steady. Beyond the frosted glass window of the door, angels are passing by in a very orderly fashion. 

They’ve been doing evacuation drills all week, and he expects the alarm and the droning voice telling them another test of the system is imminent. He’d ignored all previous exhortations that week to “Evacuate! Evacuate!” and instead enjoyed pleasant afternoons listening to Mozart while all the angels outside gathered in the street at the designated meeting point. 

When no warning is forthcoming from the speakers though, he feels a bubble of suspicion surfacing in his mind. He tries the door, but it won’t budge.

“Hello? Can anyone hear me? I appear to have been locked in!” Aziraphale shouts through the door, but not a single angel so much as pauses in their march past the window. 

“I’d hate to miss another important evacuation drill!” He’s lying of course, but he also doesn’t fancy being locked in the archive room over the weekend. 

Nobody responds. 

The tablet on the front desk starts to chime to the tune of Climb Ev’ry Mountain. 

“Principality Aziraphale, you have an incoming call from The Archangel Gabriel, do you wish to accept?” 

“Yes!” he yells at it from the door, and scurries over to face the screen (he’s been cautioned about not standing too close to the camera and breathing too heavily into the microphone so he stands awkwardly to one side, too far away to reach the answer icon). 

Gabriel’s face appears up close, evidently from his personal phone, and he seems to be running. Instead of his usual human-made suit, he's in full official regalia. 

“Aziraphale! Glad I caught you. Just letting you know The Festival is about to begin.”

“Festival?!” Oh for someone’s sake. Aziraphale does the maths, and it’s not good.

“We’ve blockaded Hell. They’re like rats in a cage down there, and they’re all going to drown. Then we’re going to end the world like we should have done fifteen years ago!” He grins maniacally through the phone, holding it aloft so Aziraphale can see the whole host armed and lined up for battle. 

Several clumps of humans have also gathered, holding up their camera phones and watching with naive excitement, unaware that they’ll all be collateral carnage in a few moments. 

“Gabriel, I swear to our heavenly Lord, I will come down there and put a stop to this nonsense! This is not Her plan!” 

“You’re not going anywhere. We’ve taken you off the field. And when I find that demon you’ve been consorting with, I’ll be sure to send your regards before I put a sword in his chest. I doubt even the infamous Crowley can survive that.”

Aziraphale gasps, hand flying up to cover his mouth. Gabriel just looks vindicated, and waves.

“Catch you later! Busy day, demons to slaughter!” The call terminates, leaving him alone in the cavernous room. The marching queue outside the window have all gone, off to win the war, and Aziraphale brushes an angry tear from his eye. 

“Fuck!” he screams, and the force of his angelic voice shakes the stacks of files, but there’s no one left to hear him. 

He has to get out of this room, and he has to find Crowley before Gabriel does. Panic starts to prickle across his skin. 

The smell of something burning drags him back to his senses as a plume of smoke rises from the storage racks beside the door. New, as yet unfiled artefacts and items clutter the shelves—and one of the boxes is most definitely on fire. The cardboard finally gives way, and the contents make a familiar clanging sound when they hit the floor. 

Aziraphale picks up his flaming sword. 

The door handle and lock are no match for a sword wielded by an angel in a hurry. “Property damage detected. Celestial wage penalty will be deducted from Employee ID 425642,” a pleasant voice informs him as he steps over the wreckage of the door. 

Aziraphale runs down the concourse as fast as his legs can carry him, flaming sword held aloft and casting a yellow glow across all the gleaming white surfaces. He skids to a stop in front of the transport globe, but the Earth has stopped turning. Wishing not for the first time that Heaven believed in instruction manuals, he tries poking it with one finger over London, but the city looks as grey and lifeless as it does on the average October day, and his finger barely disturbs the layer of cloudy fog. The globe makes an angry beeping noise, and his body remains firmly where it is. 

“Send me to Hell!” he hisses at it, but it just makes the same disconsolate noise and he stays where he is.

For a moment, Aziraphale considers just throwing himself out of the window, but there is no guarantee he won’t end up somewhere over Antarctica. He made that mistake once before when he was trying to avoid Sandalphon by exiting through a bathroom window. 

The only other way down to the lobby (and beyond) is the lifts, but with lockdown mode engaged, he’s not sure if the building will let him leave. Smart buildings in general disturb him, but the technology in Heaven is blessed with a level of intrusiveness that makes one feel like they’re being watched and judged by everything, including the celestial coffee pot. 

Aziraphale runs back towards the lifts, stopping only to douse the flames on his sword in the water feature in Gabriel’s office. In his haste, Aziraphale knocks over Gabriel’s crystal sculpted commendation for the birth of Jesus, which shatters on the floor with the sound of a hundred twinkling wind chimes being hit with a sledgehammer. Aziraphale’s wings pop out in surprise, and knock the poster that says “Put some Gratitude in your Attitude” clean off the wall. He squashes the brief stab of fear provoked by the thought of Gabriel finding out he’s trashed his office, and tucks his wings in tightly as he shuffles more carefully out the door.

The leading edge of the sword is the perfect size to wedge into the gap in the main access lift doors, and Aziraphale uses the leverage to open the gap wide enough to slip through. The shaft falls away into darkness below him, but there is enough light to see the cables dangling just out of reach. He manifests a scabbard and sheaths his sword, letting it rest along his back where it will be out of the way, and takes a leap of faith. 

He lands the hand holds a few feet below with only a brief tense moment as his fingers close around the cables in the dark. His boots scrabble about uselessly for a minute, until he gives up on using his legs for extra grip. Angelic strength has its advantages, and so he descends, hand over hand, down the endlessly deep shaft. The further down he goes, the worse the stench of death and decay becomes, and he can hear the sound of marching boots and screaming and pandemonium. 

He lands on silent feet on top of the carriage docked on the basement level. This close to Earth, he can sense the disturbances in the normal flow of human emotions that swirl around him. There is a sharp sting of grief and horror, and of loss and misery. Aziraphale can usually tune out most of the everyday humdrum, but the feelings are amplified a thousand fold by the sheer number of people. Imagining himself in the bookshop lying on the couch with a damp towel on his face does little to back the tide, but sitting for a minute with his head between his knees and taking some deep breaths is enough to stop him from passing out completely. 

A brief peek into the carriage below yields the disappointing news that the entrances and exits are well guarded by a phalanx of angelic footsoldiers, so he peels open the doors to Earth instead. There is a clear path to the kitchen if he runs now, so he flings himself up and out of the lift and dashes into the cafe space behind the escalators. While an entrepreneurial human had opened a charming coffee shop a decade earlier, it had lasted only a few weeks, having a grand total of one angelic customer in its brief and disappointing history.

There is a disused dumbwaiter in the back of the kitchen that leads to the old laundry in the basement. As far as he knows, Crowley is the only demon with knowledge of its existence. Aziraphale learned about it before their trial fifteen years ago, when Crowley, who was paranoid at the best of times, wanted an exit strategy if it all went pear-shaped. Aziraphale had been comforted by the fact that he might have some means of escaping Hell, and it made the long march down to the basement a little less intimidating. He can only hope it hasn’t been bricked up since. 

* * *

Power surges are not unheard of downstairs, and Crowley has spent several regrettable weeks stuck in some remote part of Hell after someone took out a transformer with a faulty desk fan. Curiosity gets the better of Crowley now. As he gets up to investigate, there is a dull thud of something heavy landing outside the door. 

The usual screaming from below is drowned out by screaming directly outside. A wisp of smoke and the brimstone scent of hellfire starts to seep under the door, but apart from a few flashes of light outside, the darkness continues. Crowley's eyes always adjust quickly, but the vibrations and smells are all amplified by his more reptilian senses. He's half stuck in flight-mode, has been since the first suspicious thump from above, and the tiny space is getting smaller by the second.

He presses closer to the door, straining to listen for some clue as to what is going on beyond the sanctuary of the broom cupboard. His corporeal heartbeat is a steady pulse in his ears, but it's in the moments between heartbeats, when some new and threatening noise startles him further, that Crowley starts to panic. The pulses speed up, taken over by white noise and static. In a blink, he's transported back in time by a sense memory of the apocalypse that never was, and the remembered ash and smoke chokes him.

Aziraphale. He has to find Aziraphale.

Muffled voices move towards him from outside, but when he tries to ease the door open, it won't budge. Of course being a storage closet means the door only opens outwards. And like all storage closets (hellish or otherwise) it’s infernally resistant to miracling—a fact which Crowley discovers with alarm. No matter how hard he eyeballs it, it doesn't move a molecule.

He digs his mobile out of his pocket, and almost blinds himself when the screen lurches to a hundred percent luminosity in the dark. Crowley dials it the old-fashioned way, not wanting to risk the voice activation attracting the wrong attention. Aziraphale actually owns a mobile device now, though it's some ten years out of date. However, he is notorious for leaving it under various things in the bookshop and not charging it for weeks at a time, so Crowley isn't surprised when he gets the automated answering machine.

He grinds his teeth and flings the phone in the general direction of his desk. It clatters with a definite glass-cracking sound, landing somewhere farther afield than he intended.

"Fuck," he says with a gusty sigh, and resumes staring at the door in intense concentration, in case he wasn't trying hard enough before.

A cluster of cloven-hoofed feet gallop past the door, pursued by even heavier booted footsteps. There is a fresh waft of fear sneaking under the doorway, tinged with an afterthought of righteousness. The agonised yell of someone being smited follows soon after.

Crowley retreats to the back wall away from the door, and wills the panic to subside. His instincts scream at him to escape, to get out before the smoke and fire consumes the whole place, but the fear of what lies beyond the door keeps him silent. Discorporation might not be a concern in Hell, but a worse fate awaits the foolish demon who ventures out into the waiting arms of a vengeful angel. Crowley hasn’t involuntarily turned into a snake for centuries—at this point he’s not even sure if it’s still possible—but as his body floods with adrenaline, everything starts to shift.

There are fangs in his mouth and claws at his fingertips, and everything has sharpened in his vestibular senses. He can almost see the flow of demonic energy around his own body as it surges and drops with each demon that meets their demise. It frays his mind, and the snake within is coiling in on itself, writhing and twisting until his corporeal body has no choice but to do the same. He loses track of time then, and his body is moving on its own. Shredding, rending and tearing everything within reach. 

Only one tiny thread of hope remains—that Aziraphale is as far away from this as possible. 

* * *

Arriving in Hell is like dropping into a deep and murky lake. Everything is heavy with the weight of oppression and misery, and even the upper levels which are mostly offices have the same joyless, airless quality. 

Aziraphale can understand why Crowley hates being down here: the decor needs some attention, and the lack of natural light is stifling. He tries not to read too closely into some of the more alarming posters on the walls. 

The office spaces are largely deserted, save for the steaming corpses of unlucky demons caught up in the conflict. Aziraphale is certain that Crowley has been smart, and used his inclination towards self-preservation to keep ahead of the first wave. But finding him in the labyrinth of Hell—if he _is_ hidden away somewhere—could take some time.

Aziraphale makes his way to the end of the hall. The sound of something fleshy and soft hitting something hard catches on the edge of his hearing: the door around a darkened corner is shaking, as if some great weight was being thrown against it from the other side. A large press has fallen diagonally across the doorway and is firmly wedged under a sagging roof beam, and the smoking remains of several demons still fester on the floor. 

Aziraphale fights the revulsion that takes him when he has to check to be sure none of them are Crowley, but there are no signs of him in the piles of half-disintegrated clothes and jewelry. Crowley’s pretentious watch would surely survive even the most potent holy water, and it’s nowhere to be seen. 

The thumping continues as Aziraphale moves closer. He’s not sure what kind of creature lurks behind the door. Hell hounds are kept on a different floor, from what he remembers of Crowley’s description. But that doesn’t rule out any number of other beastly things that Aziraphale doesn’t want to set loose. 

“Crowley?” He calls, just in case. The slamming noise stops.

A voice, scratchy and hoarse reaches him from under the door. 

“Angel? Is that you?” 

Aziraphale sways with relief, and has to prop himself up against the wall for a moment.

“Yes dear, it’s me.”

“Do you think you could, um, open the door?” Crowley’s voice is tremulous. 

“Oh, quite right. Yes. One moment.” Aziraphale ducks under the fallen cabinet and pushes it back up, and the scrape of metal on metal is loud in the deathly hush of the hall. He puts it down as quietly as possible, and wrenches the door open. Crowley falls through it the moment it opens, and Aziraphale has to leap to catch him before he hits the ground. 

“Sssorry angel.” Crowley’s eyes are muzzy when he looks up at Aziraphale. His right side is a bloody mess from where he’s been ramming it against the door in the vain attempt to force it open, and his speech is slurred around his still-distended fangs.

“Oh, dear… Not to worry, I’ll just take care of your arm.” Aziraphale frowns at the ragged skin, hastily smoothing it back with a miracle. He sets Crowley back on his own two feet, and casts his eyes beyond, to the wrecked state of the room where Crowley had been trapped. The remains of various stationery items and office miscellany litter the floor, and the desk that once stood in the corner has been cleaved in two. 

“Welcome to my office.” Crowley gestures tiredly at the mess. 

“Is this a storage cupboard?” Aziraphale barks out a laugh, despite himself.

“In fact it is. What of it?” Some of Crowley’s usual insouciance has restored itself in his tone, and Aziraphale lets out a relieved breath. 

“Nothing dear, it’s tip top. Do you think you can walk? We really should get out of here.” Aziraphale shifts nervously out of the hallway sightline to their hidden alcove. It presses him closer to Crowley, who looks up at him with a vulnerable fragility. 

“What’s happening? I heard screaming, and boots and I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t get the fucking door open. I just, I don’t know what’s going on.” 

“It’s Gabriel. He’s started the war, only this time it’s not so much a war as an extermination.” 

“Fucker!” Crowley says emphatically, and drags a clawed hand through his hair, pulling back the strands that have fallen into his eyes. His pupils narrow, and the glittering gold of his eyes makes him look a bit less frantic. 

“We should go, before they come back.” Aziraphale toys with the golden ring on his pinkie finger for a moment, considering. Crowley is like a flaming torch of chaotic energy, and obviously demonic, so getting him out without anyone noticing will not be easy.

Aziraphale pulls the ring off his finger, wincing as it stubbornly clings to his knuckle. 

“Crowley, will you wear this?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley nods almost imperceptibly. An angel’s mark is not something offered lightly, and although Crowely has worn the ring before when he was in Aziraphale’s body, this feels different. Significant.

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand in his, and tests his fingers for size and marvelling as the claws retract leaving behind normal squared-off nails. “If they see us, it won’t do much, but at least it should shield your demonic nature from any passive surveillance.” The ring fits perfectly on Crowley’s ring finger. Aziraphale tries to ignore the implications.

“I was about to go for lunch when this stupid war began.” Aziraphale smiles, and releases Crowley’s hand.

“Sorry angel, pastries will have to wait.” Crowley grins at him, looking more like his usual self.

“Oh now that’s just cruel, Crowley.” He smiles back gamely, and turns to look for a way out. Back the way he came seems most prudent, so Aziraphale—who is usually loathe to go any faster than a brisk walk—sets off at a moderate pace. Crowley follows, rubber-legged and strangely-gaited as usual, but otherwise silent.

* * *

|   
  
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* * *

They move down the darkened hallway, ducking and weaving around crumbling walls and doors, and as they turn the corner, Aziraphale shrieks and drags Crowley to a stop by the neck of his jacket. He pushes the demon behind him with one arm and takes in the carnage. There is a blue glow covering the entire hallway for several metres, and a steaming pile of former demon at the other end.

“Ethereal grenade, no way past it I’m afraid.” Aziraphale keeps his arm firmly between Crowley and the danger zone.

“Our exit is over there!” The door at the end of the hall is tantalisingly close. Crowley considers the risks of legging it up the hallway and jumping over the pit of death. 

“I could carry you?” Aziraphale offers.

“Fine.” Crowley gives him no time to second-guess and launches himself into Aziraphale’s arms like a swooning maiden. 

“Right, do try not to squirm dear, I mustn’t drop you.” The demon’s weight is light as a feather in his arms. But it has been his experience that Crowley tends to defy the laws of physics. On previous occasions where Aziraphale has had to support him—usually while inebriated—Crowley has always made things difficult. 

“This is just undignified.” Crowley clings tightly to Aziraphale’s shoulders, not daring to look down. 

They make it across the hall, and Aziraphale sets him down on the clear ground by the door. 

The sound of boots and smiting is getting closer, but Crowley pulls away from him and reaches upwards, jumping until his fingers catch on the edge of a large grate.

“I know a short-cut,” he says, and pulls the grate open. “Come on angel, up you go!” 

Crowley makes a step with his palms. Aziraphale puts one foot on it and steadies himself on Crowley’s shoulder, before making a careful leap upwards. He grabs the sides of the grate and pulls upwards as Crowley launches him from below. The space is cramped and dirty, but there is enough room to shuffle on hands and knees. He extends an arm back down through the opening, and drags Crowley up with him. 

* * *

In the fourteenth century, overcrowding was becoming a bit of an issue. Heaven had not given them an adequate heads up on The Black Death, so they rapidly found themselves at capacity for the existing infrastructure. As a result, Hell contracted an efficiency consultant to redesign their soul storage to be easier to categorise and manage. Dante did a bang-up job, but Beelzebub was particularly annoyed when their proprietary information was leaked to the public, thinly disguised as a poem. 

What it meant for Crowley and Aziraphale was that it was easy to get lost in the miles of concentric circular ducting above the soul storage facility. Crowley maintains that they're not lost, and that he knows exactly where they are, and Aziraphale remains unconvinced. But seeing as Crowley is ahead of him, he's got little choice but to follow and complain in the general direction of Crowley's demonic arse. 

But they also have to be quiet about it so they aren't discovered by the teams of angels clearing the halls and melting any demons they find with their holy water pistols. Not to mention crawling through an air duct with a sword and scabbard affixed to your back is awkward at best.

Crowley stops abruptly, and Aziraphale has little warning before he almost headbutts him, literally. The sound of marching boots gets louder from below, as angelic voices start shouting. Aziraphale freezes, his frustrated grumbling about Crowley’s lack of courtesy dying in his throat as the sound of another demon meeting their demise echoes up through the vents. Both of them stay there—locked in place—until the booted feet move away and the hall is silent again. 

“Come on,” Aziraphale whispers, and nudges Crowley in the ankle. He doesn’t reply, but moves on more slowly than before. Aziraphale follows as quietly as he can.

They’ve been going for what feels like hours when Crowley stops again. The sigil on the wall tells them they're in the seventh circle, when Crowley pries the vent off and sticks his head down to check where they are.

A startled sob comes from the darkened corner.

"Who's there?" A scared voice with a slight Scottish accent asks.

"Er, sorry, wrong vent. Shit, ow." Crowley retracts his head so fast he hits it on the frame on the way through. 

"Crowley? Is that you?" There's a rustling noise and the creak of overtaxed joints followed by the four-beat clip clop of hooves. 

A face peers up at them where Aziraphale and Crowley have frozen.

"Nessie?" Crowley squints at the centaur demon's tear streaked face. 

"Nessie?" Aziraphale mouths at him, confused.

"It's all right Aziraphale, I know him." Crowley vaults out of the vent, landing in a puddle of something especially disgusting. Aziraphale follows, face pinching in irritation when the gunk splashes on his trousers.

The centaur's welcoming expression crumbles as he takes in Aziraphale's angelic aspect. Being confronted by an angel on today of all days, pushes him over the edge and he latches onto Aziraphale desperately. 

"Please don't kill me!" he begs. 

"Calm down Nessie, this one's not dangerous." Crowley waves a dismissive hand at them, and it is a bit insulting.

“Well, I could murder a chocolate croissant,” Aziraphale says, tartly. He might extend that to include centaur demons who don’t understand the concept of personal space.

“Not now angel!” Crowley keeps his voice down, managing not to upset any of the curious onlookers. It won't do for the damned souls to start wailing and tip someone off to their position.

"Oh Crowley! It's just awful! What are we going to do?" The half-demon half-horse whimpers into Aziraphale's shirtfront.

"I'm terribly sorry," Aziraphale offers, stepping back in dismay, too late to avoid the demonic snot and tears that have transferred to his favorite coat.

"When I'm gone, who'll look after them?" The demon sobs harder. Crowley desperately shushes him.

"They'll be fine! Look at the bunch in the second circle, they've been having a grand old time for centuries," Crowley reminds him.

Being a guardian in the deeper circles was a bit like being a wildlife keeper at an Australian zoo (except for the whole torturing bit, that sort of thing is frowned on in zoos). You love all your charges and ensure their needs are met, knowing full well that they would all kill you if given the opportunity. 

One of the souls looks up at them from where it's trying to eat its own foot.

"Oi, Marquis! Leave your foot alone! There won't be no one to miracle it back for you next time!" That thought precipitates a fresh flood of tears and Nessus takes Crowley's proffered handkerchief gratefully.

Crowley's snake eyes skate away from the alarmingness going on in the enclosure, and he smiles at Nessus, teeth bared.

"Ssso, my friend and I need to get to the laundry, and we've gotten a bit turned around down here. You don't happen to know where it is?"

"Aye, it's just through that door." Nessus gestures to the door not two metres from where they popped out of the vent.

"I told you I have an impeccable sense of direction!" Crowley says, and Aziraphale can tell he’s mentally adding one to his column of Times he was Right and Aziraphale was Wrong. Crowley marches over to the door and wrenches it open before Aziraphale can dispute anything. The laundry is indeed just beyond the threshold.

"Um, it was good to see you!" Nessus waves at them, a wobbly smile on his face. 

"You too, chin up! And don't tell anyone you've seen me!"

"Who am I going to tell, we're all going to die anyway..."

Crowley closes the door behind them, cutting Nessus off before he can start blubbering again.

“He’s an odd fellow.” Aziraphale swipes ineffectually at his coat, appalled by the state of it. Crowley has paused on the other side of the room, considering their escape plan. Aziraphale hadn’t paid too much attention to the getting out part when he’d been in such a hurry to find Crowley. 

Angels, and demons for that matter, don’t typically suffer from claustrophobia, but this will certainly test them. Considering the diameter of the space and the diameter of Aziraphale’s less than lean waistline, under any other circumstances he wouldn’t even attempt it. But needs must. 

“You know, this would be much easier if I was a snake.” Crowley inspects the inside of the chute. 

“Yes, but you'd have to take the ring off, so don't even think about it!” While true enough that keeping Crowley shielded is his priority, if he has to struggle up the damned thing while human-shaped, so does Crowley. 

"Blimey, that’s narrow. Oh well, no choice now! Just up and out. Simple!" Crowley hoists himself up into the cramped opening with a bravado that’s tenuous at best, and begins the slow ascent. 

"Once more unto the breach..." Aziraphale mutters, folding himself up as small as possible to follow Crowley upwards.

It's much slower going and twice as unpleasant to climb up than it was sliding down. But eventually, they emerge in the kitchen, filthy and tired but finally back in the human realm.


	2. Chapter 2

The escalators in the lobby, both up and down, are stationary with hastily strung "Out of Order" signs on them. Crowley and Aziraphale peer out from the portholes on the swinging doors to the kitchen, but there is no movement anywhere in the main entrance. There are a few bodies lying on the floor in varying states of dismemberment, but none of them so much as twitch. 

The wind has picked up outside, and the trees beyond the footpath are swaying almost past the limit of their strength to stay in the ground. Lightning sparks overhead, and the crackle and thump of thunder is close behind.

Though the front door is the easiest to find, there are many ways into Hell that aren’t as well guarded. Aziraphale and Crowley ease past the creaking kitchen doors and head for the side door that will take them onto the street.

Crowley spares a moment to peer in the hole in front of the escalator to where the scorch marks and rubble completely obscure the concierge desk and main elevators down. 

He usually takes this entrance through the floor, but there's the telltale blue glow of another ethereal grenade that would vapourise him the moment he set foot on it. The main door is completely barricaded, and several less fortunate demons are still pinned by the blocks of fallen concrete. The sight of destruction freezes something inside him, and Crowley's whole body locks up as the reality of how close he came to getting obliterated hits him. 

Aziraphale notices his distress right away, angelic sense and millennia of familiarity giving him a direct line to what Crowley is so desperately broadcasting. He can feel the burst of fear and despair rolling over him too, like a physical blow, and it's all he can do not to get dragged under as well. But they can't afford to linger any further.

"Come away, Crowley. Please. We need to get moving before someone sees us." Aziraphale reaches out and takes his hand, urging him towards the exit. Crowley is forced to stagger after the angel, on legs that feel like they're made of sand.

The wind outside whips Crowley's hair into a ragged mess in seconds, and he wishes for his glasses to protect his eyes against the gale. Aziraphale is almost luminous as he walks out into the wave of angelic energy, absorbing it like a battery. The air is thick with it, and it leaves a burning smell in Crowley's nose. It's the stench of righteousness, and it rankles.

"We have to get out of the city," Crowley says, hand still clutched tightly around Aziraphale's. They have to duck behind a street vendor's cart when the sound of marching boots blows by on the wind.

"Nowhere is safe. They're going to destroy the whole planet. I hate to admit it, but we might want to think about somewhere... far away. Very far." Aziraphale points towards the sky.

Crowley hesitates. It’s almost crushing to finally hear the words he was so desperate to hear not so long ago. It seems almost a lifetime ago that he was standing on a street corner, begging Aziraphale to follow him to the stars. And now, roles reversed, he’s tempted.

He can see it so easily in his mind’s eye - the two of them relaxing in a quiet nebula somewhere off the beaten track. No humans to tempt or bless, just peace and quiet. It’s a vision he’s had thousands of times before, and now there is the chance that it wouldn’t end with Gabriel or Michael turning up and busting Aziraphale for shirking his duties. 

But there is a complication, you could say. He really shouldn’t have kept it from Aziraphale all this time, and now the lie of omission is so large and all-encompassing, he’s not sure where to begin. Crowley isn’t the one with his heart on his sleeve this time, but the last thing he wants is to drive another wedge between them. The heavenly host-shaped wedge is bad enough. 

Last time he asked Aziraphale, he had nothing to tie him to Earth, except a few millennia of fond (and some less fond) memories, and the comfort of the familiar. Earth he could take or leave, but contemplating eternity without Aziraphale became increasingly unpleasant the more he considered it. 

Now he was past the point of no return. He hadn’t made any deals or signed any contracts, but there was an expectation. He has an obligation, one he has made without consulting the angel, and confessing is harder than he anticipated. Like the person who buys a puppy without telling their significant other, or signs their significant other up to volunteer at a charity fun-run. Only the stakes are somewhat higher. 

Crowley decided long ago that the choice should be Aziraphale’s, and if he wants to stay with Crowley he’ll have to make it quickly. 

"We need to get to Tadfield,” Crowley says, and waits. 

"Tadfield? Why?" Aziraphale doesn’t look confused, he just looks wary.

"I'll explain on the way, angel. Let's go, before they come back." Crowley is starting to regret not bringing it up sooner, but hindsight is a truly demonic invention.

“I’m not going to like it, am I?” Aziraphale still looks concerned, but Crowley can appreciate the trust he appears willing to extend. 

“Probably not, but I think it’s the only option we’ve got. I’ll always follow you, angel. No matter what. When we get there, and you’ve had a chance to think it over, let me know what it will be. No questions asked, we’ll go our own way if you want.” Obligations or not, Crowley knows one thing - he will forsake all others if the angel wishes it. But so much of what he’s planned is for Aziraphale, in a way. They’ve raised countless toasts to the world of humans, and Crowley would like to think he can still give Aziraphale what he wants, even if there’s no world left.

They run into Death as they turn the corner.

“Ah, you two again. I should have known.” Death lowers his scythe and favours them with an empty-eyed stare. The human souls cowering before him take advantage of the distraction and bug out to parts unknown.

“Just when I thought our luck was improving,” Crowley mutters, and edges backwards.

“Hello,” Aziraphale uses his most polite voice. “Would you be so kind as to tell us what the hell is going on?” 

“I have no time for telling you anything, souls to reap et cetera et cetera. As you know, I'm a bit short staffed.” 

“Of course, it’s just, I used to feel several billion souls when I walked the streets of London, and now I’m getting almost nothing. You can’t have taken them all to purgatory, surely?”

“You’ll have to ask your people about that. I have other concerns.” Death waves a dismissive hand, and pushes past them on the pavement. After a few steps, he turns back and points his scythe at Crowley’s neck. “I'll be seeing you,” he says, empty-eyed and inflectionless.

Death vanishes into wisps of smoke, leaving Crowely and Aziraphale alone again on the street corner.

“Well, that wasn’t much help!” Aziraphale pitches his voice at the empty space where Death last stood, huffing for good measure. 

Crowley swallows heavily, and tries to ignore the sudden chill that besets him. The phantom impression of cold metal at his throat is an unwelcome addition to his already panicked senses. 

Aziraphale doesn’t comment, but hustles them both off the street with even more haste.

They find the Bentley mercifully undamaged in the staff car park, and Aziraphale does his best to ward it. While the car itself is in no way special, after decades of exposure to infernal energies, it fairly reeks of evil (or so Aziraphale often reminds him when he’s in a strop about Crowley’s speeding).

Crowley lets him get the Bentley's engine running because they can't risk his magic blipping on someone's radar, but the Bentley has never interacted well with angelic miracles. He winces and glares aggressively when Aziraphale makes the petrol mix too rich and it backfires like a gunshot. 

"What have I told you about getting carried away?!" He grits out through clenched teeth.

Usually he loves how obnoxious that sound is—and how easily it startles all humans within a kilometer radius—but not today. Aziraphale mutters an apology to the car, but doesn't dignify Crowley with a reply.

Not wanting to push his car too far out of her comfort zone, Crowley still insists on being behind the wheel. Aziraphale will have to do the rest and hope that they don't get caught. 

They creep out into the street, making sure no one has seen fit to investigate their less than subtle start. The coast is clear, so they peel out of the parking lot and silently cruise towards Soho.

Crowley idly entertains the idea of swinging by Mayfair to scoop up his plants, but it’s a risk he’s not prepared to take. Everything he really needs or cares about is already in the car, so he just lets Aziraphale steer them to the bookshop. 

The streets that are usually teeming with pedestrians and tourists are empty. Even when they pull up out the front of A.Z Fell and Co., there are no signs of life, and no traffic wardens come out brandishing their ticket books. Crowley stays with the Bentley as Aziraphale runs inside, though he’s loathe to let the angel out of his sight. His fingers drum an urgent rhythm into the steering wheel while he waits, a loud staccato that seems deafening in the silent street. It’s almost enough to drown out the pounding of his corporation’s heart. 

Aziraphale reemerges only a handful of seconds later, clutching a smaller satchel than Crowley expected. 

“Is that all, angel?” Crowley boggles at him. He’d been mentally preparing himself to expand the Bentley’s boot by several cubic metres. 

“Oh Crowley, I got inside and saw it all there. Centuries of human history so carefully preserved, and now humanity has been virtually wiped out of existence. I couldn’t stand to look at them any more. What good is a book going to be? And how could I choose which ones to bring when they’re all important in their own way?” Aziraphale, who has been stoic the entire time, is starting to unspool. Crowley panics.

“Hey, hey. It’s ok angel.” Hugging isn’t something they do often, but Crowley tugs him across the open space of the bench seat and wraps him in his arms. He can feel the tears falling from angelic eyes where they dampen his shirt collar, and tries to soothe Aziraphale quietly. 

“I’m sorry, you must think me very foolish to be crying over some old books. Especially when everything else is so…” he trails off and gestures out the window at the desolation beyond. 

“Angel, you’ve dedicated a not inconsiderable part of your life to the shop. I’d be worried if you weren’t upset.” Crowley rubs gentle circles across his back at the base of his hidden wings. Eventually, the sobs subside and Aziraphale pulls away, looking bleak but composed. 

“Thank you, Crowley. I know you hate me saying so, but you’re always so kind to me,” Aziraphale gives him a wobbly smile, and Crowley doesn’t have the heart to complain about compliments of the four-letter variety. 

He pulls away from the footpath, and starts the slow trek out of the city. Aziraphale doesn’t look back, and soon the bookshop disappears from sight. 

* * *

There's a burst of static on the radio as they make their way west. Crowley tries turning the volume down, but it just keeps crackling and popping with indistinct and irregular waves. Neither of them can discern anything from the intermittent buzz, until they get farther away from the city. 

Out of nowhere, a voice starts screaming.

"Crowley!" The next part is garbled, but is probably a stream of imaginative and evocative insults.

"Do you think I should answer?" he asks, frowning at the Blaupunkt as if it has personally offended him. 

"I think they'll only keep screaming until you do," Aziraphale replies, covering his ears with his hands as the shouting gets louder and more frantic.

"Crowley! It's Dagon, answer me you bastard!" The static miraculously clears up.

"Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on, what do you want?"

"Where the blazes are you? Hell has been breached and there's millions of souls just piling up in the intake. We need all hands on deck!"

"Um, that sounds bad?" In truth Crowley hadn't listened much in the meetings about boring things like intake volumes and resource allocations for new arrivals. 

"It's about to go critical you moron!" Dagon doesn't pause for breath. "The gates will open and you'll really know about it when you have a hundred billion damned souls just strolling about up there!" There is the sound of a door opening, and muffled footsteps.

"They've found me," Dagon's voice is hushed now, "it's over. You can’t hide forever, Crowley. Mark my words!" There is more screaming, a lot of gurgling and then nothing.

Crowley slams the off button on the radio, and this time it finally cuts out.

In the distance another group of humans are being taken up into the rapture, like golden beams ascending into the sky. They're flanked by an angelic battalion who shimmer as they hover above the ground, until they wink out of existence entirely and disappear off the mortal plane.

"If the damned are all up here, you know what will happen." Aziraphale rubs a weary hand over his face. Angels shouldn't get headaches, but he can feel one building behind his eyes.

"They will annihilate every living thing," Crowley says, voice distant and miserable. 

"What are we going to do?" 

"There's nothing we can do Angel, they've uncorked it and now the whole thing's spilling everywhere. It's out of our hands."

"I'm not ready to let go, Crowley. I don't want it to end." Aziraphale feels the low ache of grief starting to seize him, clutching and crushing where his human heart still beats. He wonders if it's possible to discorporate out of abject misery. 

"Angel, you've had to know this was coming since the first Armageddon came around. We've been living on borrowed time." Crowley sighs, looking out to the horizon where more storm clouds are gathering.

"I know I should be grateful. We've got a thousand lifetime's worth of stolen moments, you and I. The poor wretched mortals get the blink of an eye and then they're off to their eternal rest... it hardly seems fair." Aziraphale leans his head against the glass of the Bentley's window and watches more souls ascend.

"It isn't fair. Not for them, and not for us. We've spent millennia playing the role, doing the job, and for what? To get a front row seat for when it all gets destroyed. Thanks, but no thanks."

"It wasn't for nothing, Crowley. We may not understand it, but there has to be a reason."

"You honestly think there's anyone up there behind the wheel? I think she's fucked off and left us holding the bag," Crowley doesn't try to conceal his bitterness anymore. 

“I’m not going to dispute your interpretation, but surely there was some way to win the war and still avoid destroying everything. I can’t believe that the world would be allowed to end at random on a Friday evening.” 

“I don’t know angel, but there’s no way out but through. Things will be different now.”

“Maybe some good can still come of it,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley doesn’t comment further. He’s not sure what else there is to say.

At the beginning—after the first apocalypse was averted—they’d just settled back into the same daily round. Change is something they fought tooth and nail to avoid. Even when it was thrust upon them, there was something comforting about settling back into the same old groove. 

Privately, Crowley had hoped that it would be the catalyst for that next big step. That with Aziraphale finally being out from under heaven’s boot, he would allow himself to be with Crowley without reservation—and even if the angel was not ready, or even romantically inclined, then at least without the feeling that they were doing something forbidden just meeting for lunch. But as it turns out, sometimes love is even scarier than the threat of death. 

So they dine out, they go to work, and they bask in each other’s company. But nothing really changes. 

Crowley still wiles away his time curating online accounts with images of cute farmhouses in the country, and tells himself it’s not an unhealthy fixation every time he picks up his phone just to have a quick browse. There’s meandering driveways lined with trees, stonemasonry mixed with corrugated steel and hillsides dotted with sheep. All very pastoral. It is an idle thought really: it’s not like Aziraphale could stand being some place where the only restaurant in town is a glorified pub. 

But every time he drives into Tadfield, he gets this strange yearning for another life. He blames Adam and his love waves—not that Crowley can actually sense them, so he figures it’s all subliminal, which is just rude. 

Adam started to reach out to him not long after they met for advice on managing his abilities, thus torpedoing Aziraphale’s theory that the boy was human. Crowley hasn’t hidden the fact that he’s been spending time with Adam over the intervening years, but Aziraphale has never pried or snooped. He seems content to trust Crowley to guide Adam on his own. 

But working with Adam was indulging his paranoia, he knows. Adam was as sure that the end of the world would still be coming as Crowley was. But it’s not really paranoia if they really are out to get you, and Crowley doesn’t believe in getting away with it—at least he hasn’t done since that awful afternoon spent drinking himself stupid in a pub, truly and completely alone. 

Consequences are something he’s all too familiar with, really. Even though he’s pushed limits, pushed Aziraphale and danced on the knife-edge of getting caught, no matter how careful he is or how smart he thinks he’s been, he knows that any minute everything could crumble. 

That’s why the house in the country has stayed as a dream, and why he lets Aziraphale dictate the pace of their lives. Crowley has dreams, he has hobbies, but he doesn’t love Earth for Earth’s sake the way Aziraphale does. He just hopes that when the planet is obliterated, that the connection between them isn’t just another casualty.

* * *

The sun is starting to set as the smooth tarmac of the highway gives way to poorly maintained country lanes, and the Bentley’s suspension protests at each pothole and soft edge. 

There are no more tears, and the hitching of his breathing has settled, but Aziraphale still feels at sea. He doesn’t know what Crowley has planned for them once they reach Tadfield, and at this point he feels rather like a hapless passenger in more ways than one. The world is ending, that much is obvious. But Aziraphale still hasn’t made his peace with it in the handful of hours since Armageddon number two began. 

He has been idly daydreaming for more than a decade about being able to finally throw in the towel and leave behind his heavenly duties once and for all. But what shape his life should take after that was an elusive and dare he say, ineffable, concept.

If he’s honest with himself, Aziraphale would struggle to be happy living as a human. He’s far too comfortable with the extra little benefits that come from being an angel. He wants to have his cake and eat it too, both metaphorically and literally. So really planning for what comes next has always been in the too hard basket.

Deep down, he had felt like nothing was actually resolved by the aversion of Armageddon, though it was nice to imagine it all happened as it was supposed to. Sure, there’s the ineffable plan to consider (which he tries to believe really exists), but that’s the whole point. Nothing gets resolved. Nothing can be known. And uncertainty is not something that has been historically good for angels. Tends to lead to unfortunate rebellions and falling into pits of sulphur.

So what else could he do but maintain the status quo?

The other angels do not understand his association with Crowley. In Heaven, concepts of loyalty and fraternity are very different. There’s no room for anything other than doing God’s work. She occupies every empty space, and her influence sits like a fog over everything. 

On Earth, there’s just the humans. They look inward, worrying about themselves: even the ones that claim to be working towards a higher goal, or for a higher power, are just hungry for their own gain. God’s name is used as a punishment or a scam to hurt and deceive, and it all leaves a bad taste in even angelic mouths. 

But you can’t be around humans for thousands of years and not pick up a habit or two. So Aziraphale has come to understand the joy of individual expression and the feeling of belonging in one’s own skin. Even when that skin is just a collection of flesh and bone encasing the essence of something old and magical. And there’s that old sin of pride to contend with—he’s proud of his collection of books, for a start. 

Crowley isn’t as tethered to the material world as Aziraphale is, but he is tethered to Aziraphale on the basis of their long and storied acquaintance. And he has his plants, though he doesn’t love them, exactly. The only love they get is of the tough variety. But he is very committed to his aesthetic, which is not so different to Aziraphale’s love of the trappings of middle-class life. Keeping up appearances. 

But you can’t spend six thousand years in the company of another being and not expect to get so used to their presence—so blessedly comfortable—when they get taken away, it will break you in a way you can’t prepare for. Aziraphale knows he was made to be strong, but with the sudden left turn into madness his afternoon has taken, he feels as vulnerable as an armadillo stuck on its back. 

* * *

|   
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Portraits of Crowley and Aziraphale | Anka-Skier  
  
  
Portraits of Crowley and Aziraphale | Anka-Skier

* * *

Neither of them relax until they have reached the safety of the open road. It's an old reflex borne of habit to fit in, but Crowley finds himself letting out an emphatic sigh. They haven't seen any sign of other angels since exiting the M25, but that doesn't mean they're out of the woods yet. 

“Do you care to tell me why exactly we're going to Tadfield?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley’s fingers tighten on the wheel. 

He has been churning an explanation around in his head for hours, but in the cold light of day the plan still seems a bit preposterous. Aziraphale usually needs careful coaxing to go along with one of his schemes—Crowley tries to stomp down the awful memory of standing on a street corner with his heart on his sleeve, begging for Aziraphale to listen. He’s not in a hurry to repeat that experience.

“Well, we need the Antichrist, for a start. He's kicking around there somewhere. Hopefully he's seen all of this and is preparing already.” Crowley gestures out the window where the warning flashes of lightning are dancing on the edge of the horizon.

“Preparing what?”

“Preparing Plan B,” Crowley says, but doesn’t elaborate further. As long as Aziraphale isn’t threatening to take the matter up with Her, Crowley still has a chance to convince him.

They crest the hill coming into the centre of town and take a left at the roundabout. The town hasn't changed much in the last fifteen years. Almost all signs of the previous apocalypse have been erased, but Crowley can still see lines of dark rubber on the road where he drove through in a somewhat more fiery hurry last time he was here. Adam probably kept them to annoy old Mr Tyler.

Crowley drives on through the town and out the other side, back towards the old airbase. The Bentley knows the way well, having driven here every other weekend since the last end of the world. 

Adam, now a tall and less gangly twentysomething, comes bolting out the nearest shed as they pull up in front of the gate, trailed by his ever faithful canine companion.

"Cutting it a bit fine, AJ!" Adam is breathless when he runs over to the Bentley to shout through the window.

“Sorry, sorry, ran into some trouble.” 

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Where's the witch and the walking disaster?” Crowley hasn’t seen Anathema or Newt for some weeks—they’ve been abroad, tying up family business interests on the strength of some new and unsettling visions. Crowley hadn’t put much stock in the witch’s abilities at the time, but looking back, he wishes he’d been a bit less dismissive. 

“Already aboard and waiting.” Adam grins. 

“Headcount?” Crowley looks out the window to the field beyond, where a dozen humans are climbing down from the back of an old Transit van. 

“By my calculations, a little over ten thousand. I tried to summon as many as I could. But by the time I realised what was happening, it was too late and their souls weren't attached any more. And reattaching them is fine for one or two but 7 billion was impossible.”

Ten thousand. Crowley sighs. It will have to be enough.

* * *

While Crowley maneuvers the Bentley in a slow crawl through the gate, Aziraphale lets his mind wander to the humans arriving behind them. They alight from the minibus with bags and suitcases, some carrying birds in cages or cats in carriers, and others towing small children or dogs in their wake. 

As the humans pass the Bentley and head through the fence, Aziraphale's gaze is drawn to the large shed in the field behind the gate. It looks like an ordinary barn, containing a vintage car that looks not unlike the Bentley to Aziraphale's untrained eye. But when he truly looks at it, the veil parts and barn disappears, leaving a leviathan of a spaceship parked in the middle of the concrete lot.

There is a large ramp that leads into a huge open bay which is bustling with activity. Dozens of humans are dragging containers and boxes on board, and a young man about Adam’s age is cajoling a pair of reluctant goats into some kind of travel crate.

The Bentley eases through the shimmering wards, and Crowley pulls it to a stop next to a batch of boxes that are yet to be loaded. 

Aziraphale’s head swims a little at the wave of anxiety and distress that is emanating from every human in the vicinity. Casting about in a sea of uncertainty, he finds a small thread of hope that he uses to drag his mind back to calmer waters. The trepidation must show on his face though, because Crowley grasps his hand and eases it out of the deathgrip he’s had on the seatbelt. The button clicks and the belt falls away, and he forces the tension out of the set of his jaw. Crowley gives him a reassuring smile.

“I’ll unload our things shall I?” Aziraphale says with a hitch in his voice, and reaches into the backseat for his bag of keepsakes, but Crowley waves him off.

“No need angel, the old girl is coming with us!” Crowley says, and twitches his face into the rakish grin that he always uses when he’s trying to be mysterious. “You can hop out here.” Crowley shoos Aziraphale out the door and guns the engine, weaving dangerously through the throngs of people still loading the ship. Miraculously, they all make way for him.

"I'll give you the grand tour!" Adam, who has been politely pretending not to eavesdrop, is off and running up the ramp after the Bentley already. Aziraphale follows at a more cautious pace.

"Just give him the basics! We don't have time for the full experience," Crowley yells back at them through the open window, and guides the Bentley off the ramp and into the main docking bay. Aziraphale watches in fascination as enormous tentacle-like appendages emerge from the walls and snake around and under the car. It's lifted clear off the ground with the swish and whine of hydraulics, and ascends inside the cavernous space of the bay until Aziraphale loses sight of the car and Crowley both.

"Don't worry Aziraphale, he's just getting her settled for the flight. Come with me!" Adam bounds back over and beckons him through the nearest doorway.

  
Portrait of Adam Young | Anka-Skier

  
Portrait of Adam Young | Anka-Skier

"I know it's a really dreadful day, but I'm also kind of excited," Adam confides, and Aziraphale can't help but notice the rather strong waves of energy coming off him. The end of the world was his destiny once, and now that it's returned, so too has the terrible surge of power and capacity. Capacity for good, Aziraphale hopes, despite Adam's dubious origins.

All around them, humans are milling about, dragging crates and bags full of the most treasured earthly possessions. A cat goes streaking past, weaving through Aziraphale's feet as it goes, with a large Alsatian dog in hot pursuit. Aziraphale has to flatten himself against a wall to avoid being bowled over. Dog joins the chase, yipping happily as he skids around the corner.

"It's bedlam in here at the moment, but we're almost ready to go!" Adam tugs Aziraphale by his sleeve, pulling him into a small alcove that turns out to be some kind of lift. It propels them upwards at breakneck speed, spurred on by Adam's gleeful influence.

Adam points out all of the important things like the kitchens, the common areas and lavatories, and he is a little manic when he describes what Plan B actually entails. Aziraphale is regaled with technobabble and a brief history of the galaxy that leaves his head spinning, and a desperate need to talk to Crowley to figure out what exactly he’s signed up for. He’s not in an ideal frame of mind to hear about Plans C through G which cover, in order: food shortages, nuclear meltdown, civilian uprising, being marooned on the moon and zombies. 

Adam takes his bewildered expression as a sufficient success, and promises to take him back to Crowley, before Aziraphale can ask any of the questions swirling around in his head like logs about to go over the waterfall of complete and utter mystification. 

“And last stop, the bridge.” Adam opens a small and unassuming door, which opens out into a moderate sized ante-chamber through which Aziraphale can see a familiar set of wheels. The bridge itself is a small room, and space is even more at a premium with a large vintage car taking up most of the available floor space. But there is enough room for someone to open the Bentley’s doors and the whole front side window is made up of a transparent material, affording them a birds-eye view of the humans milling about below.

The Bentley herself has been partially consumed by the ship, the cabin now sits where the helm of a boat would be, and the engine is encased in the wall at the front. 

“So what do you think, angel?” Crowley asks, stepping out of the driver's seat. His voice is deliberately casual, but there is an obvious subtext in the way his fingers dance nervously against the roof. 

“Well, I think as long as you don’t fly the way you drive, we might just have a chance.” Aziraphale takes a determined step towards the passenger seat, and opens the door. 

Adam bounds after him and jumps inelegantly into the back seat, chanting “Road trip! Road trip!” until Crowley throws an old pair of broken sunglasses at him. While it does temporarily shut him up, Adam’s enthusiasm doesn’t dim and Aziraphale is left to mutter under his breath about long trips and tossing annoying people overboard.

Crowley snarls at them both, and grabs a small handheld radio off the dash. “All right people, let's get this show on the road. Move it or lose it—you’ve got ten minutes.” 

The demon’s shoulders are tense, but he gives Aziraphale a game smile when their gazes cross. 


	3. Chapter 3

Ten minutes turns out to be too long, and a claxon sounds as the ramp is being closed.

Crowley waves an arm, and the glass in front of Aziraphale’s eyes zooms in and focuses on the ground just beyond the ship’s wards. Three angels in battle dress stand at the edge of the field. 

“Fuck! It’s Gabriel,” Crowley spits the name out like an unwanted cashew shell. 

“I thought they couldn’t see us in here,” Adam looks alarmed. 

“The wards were only designed to stop any curious humans from stumbling in here, and to discourage anyone else who might wander past,” Crowley sighs. “Fooling an archangel isn’t easy. They probably won’t be able to see us for now, but they know something is here.”

Down below, Gabriel walks forward a few paces and taps the warding wall with his axe—the touch sends ripples across the surface. The other angels join him, pressing their hands against the invisible barrier, and the wards start to weaken.

“Well, we can’t just sit here and pretend. I’ll have to go down there,” Aziraphale says, resigned and with a sinking feeling of dread. 

“Angel, he’ll kill you.” 

“Maybe, but we don’t have a choice.” Aziraphale turns to where Adam is leaning over the edge of the front of the bridge, squinting at the angels below. “You stay here and finish getting ready. Crowley and I will hold them off until you can get away.”

“Angel, I’m not going down there. I’ll fire us up now and we’ll get the hell out of here.”

“And risk the whole ship getting destroyed? No. They’ll want us, not the humans.”

“Angel, we can’t! I didn’t come all this way just to die in fucking Tadfield. Adam can fly the ship and you and I can go somewhere else. Everyone wins.” Crowley injects a solid amount of demonic influence into his words, desperate eyes begging the angel to agree.

Aziraphale stares him down, letting the hollow words lie unrebutted. His silence is enough.

“Argh, ok, fine. Have it your way, angel.” Crowley flings the door of the Bentley open and lurches out of it, leaving Aziraphale to rush after him. 

* * *

Crowley and Aziraphale step through the wards and onto the open tarmac as the grey skies begin to darken. Gabriel is flanked by Michael and Beelzebub, to Crowley’s surprise and mounting horror.

Beelzebub looks even paler against the stark white of their new uniform. There is a smattering of gold on one cheek where boils used to be and a dozen fireflies floating in an off-center halo around their head.

  
Beelzebub | Anka-Skier

  
Beelzebub | Anka-Skier

"I see you cut a deal," Crowley spits.

"I won't bother denying it. It was just business. No point in having a vision if you're getting dragged down by dead weight. You could have been reinstated too you know, but you blew your chance when you decided to freelance."

“You sold out all of hell. They were slaughtered! Your own kind...” Crowley has no love lost for most of his demonic brethren, but Nessus and the others didn’t deserve to be killed. 

“That’s rich, coming from you. Your traitorous hands are hardly clean,” Beelzebub scoffs.

“And 7 billion humans was what, an acceptable loss?” 

“Why do you care?! You’re weak, Crowley, and soon all ten million angels will be here to watch you get what’s coming to you.”

“Oh, just sod off back to the pit will you. None of us are buying the act, _my lord_ ,” Crowley says with a bravado that he doesn’t really feel. Beelzebub just laughs at him.

“It’s not an act, you pathetic waste of brimstone. The humans had it right with survival of the fittest. I saw an opportunity, and I took it, and now I get to be a part of the next Great Plan.” Beelzebub takes a pointed step towards them, grinning when Crowley involuntarily shrinks back.

“You still believe in the Great Plan, after everything that happened? Last time Lucifer was beaten by a kid,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale moves forward to shield him when the other angels come too close.

Beelzebub throws their hands in the air in exasperation. “I’m not interested in what that washed up prick Lucifer has to say anymore. Always moaning about how She does a shit job and how he’s better—as if Hell was some kind of brilliant example. Hell is a shitshow, has been for centuries.” 

Crowley has to admit, they’re not wrong about that. 

“Nice ring, by the way” Beelzebub says as they lean closer to Crowley, who self-consciously stuffs his hands back into his pockets—but it’s too late. Beelzebub smirks at the blatant evidence of Aziraphale’s favour, only too pleased by the revelation. 

“That’s none of your business.” Crowley glares at the unearned halo.

“On the contrary, you still work for me. And I should take exception to you trying to sleep your way back into Her good graces. Not a good look for a demon to be fraternizing with an angel—not even a disgraced one like _him_.” 

Aziraphale gives Beelzebub a snide look and stands taller, towering over them. “With whom Crowley chooses to associate is no concern of yours. You have never cared one bit about him unless he was useful to you.”

“Associating… Is that what the kids are calling it these days,” Beelzebub gives him a sidelong glance that telegraphs their utter disbelief.

“Enough!” Gabriel shouts. “The war is here. It’s your choice—accept your retirement or fight. Either way, you will die.”

Crowley licks his fingers, lighting them on fire with a thought. The hellfire flicks up and dances brighter and higher as he eyeballs the angels with a fierce glare. The wards he’s put up in front of the ship are aflame mere moments after he reaches back to touch them, and a wall of hellfire erupts into place behind them, hiding the ship and everyone in it safely behind the flames. 

Aziraphale feels the flare of heat at his back, but doesn’t take his eyes off where Gabriel stands, axe in hand. Aziraphale stretches his wings out for a moment, letting the warmth rush over them, and draws his sword, holding it nearward.

There are three of them to Aziraphale and Crowley’s two, but Gabriel waves the others away. Michael backs off as instructed, but Beelzebub moves over to one side, eyeing Crowley with intent. 

“Crowley, if you’ve got any other big ideas, now is the time,” Aziraphale says, glancing back at the demon lurking next to him.

“I’m thinking angel, just try not to get axed,” Crowley mutters.

It’s been some time since Aziraphale has felt the weight of a sword in his hand, but the balance is familiar. Gabriel has always mocked him for his softness—and accused him of shirking his responsibilities to be in fighting form at all times. But if Gabriel believes he’s forgotten his god-given skills, then Aziraphale can only hope that his misjudgement will be his undoing. 

Crowley’s expression curls into a smile as he circles behind Aziraphale, setting the sword alight with his own burning fingers. He steps closer, stretching up to speak in Aziraphale’s ear.

"He won't show you any mercy, not after everything we've done. I know you're an angel, but give him hell." Crowley's grin is feral as he sinks back towards the wall of flames behind him, eyes fixed on Gabriel. 

Hellfire drips from the end of the sword, and Aziraphale moves forward, tucking his wings away for safety.

Gabriel’s violet eyes widen as he takes in the hellfire, but his jaw stays firmly clenched in an angry grimace. A storm rumbles in the distance, moving closer. 

One by one, angels land behind him, all dressed for war and armed with their own flaming swords and shields. Aziraphale swallows heavily, but holds his ground. 

"The human world has been turning away from Her, and they’ve condemned themselves. You should have fixed that, Aziraphale. It was your jurisdiction, after all.” Gabriel’s voice is condescending.

“That defeats the whole purpose of humanity! They have free will!” Aziraphale yells across the howling wind. 

“And you don’t! Free will is not for us, Aziraphale. We follow the plan.” Gabriel’s words are punctuated by a loud crack of lighting. “Burning you might not have worked, but I can still remove your head." Gabriel swings his axe in a broad swipe, meant to intimidate. Crowley, enraged, summons a ball of hellfire in both hands and volleys it directly at Gabriel’s face. He parrys it easily though, and the molten blob bounces off his shield and lands harmlessly on the ground. 

"You can keep the dregs of humanity you've gathered, demon. Heaven doesn't want them.” Gabriel sneers at Crowley, and snuffs the ball of hellfire burning at his feet with a clod of mud. 

“But Aziraphale, silly, deluded Aziraphale. You didn't think we were just going to let you run away? I will not tolerate an angel under my command deserting.” Aziraphale rushes him then, sword swinging precisely at the open space on Gabriel’s left side. His sword catches the leaf of armor over Gabriel’s hip, denting the metal and blackening it but not wounding. 

Gabriel catches him across the knuckles with the edge of his shield, which stings like a bastard, but doesn’t make him drop his sword. Aziraphale retreats into to a defensive posture, but the hit he landed is enough to make Gabriel re-evaluate. The archangel draws back a pace, and considers the damage to his suit.

“That was brave, but stupid.” Gabriel glowers at him.

“Take that you sanctimonious prick!” Crowley shouts from behind Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he smiles, teeth bared.

Gabriel turns and addresses the gathering crowd of angels, lifting his voice to carry across the thousand or so who are lining the edge of the airfield.

“If he’d had the decency to die the first time, he could have spared himself this. Principality Aziraphale, who thinks the rules don't apply to him. Well, I'm going to make him regret it.” 

The angels roar in agreement, raising their shields and closing ranks behind him, forming a semicircle that blocks any forward escape. 

The crash and clang of axe and sword is almost drowned out by the rumble of thunder in the hills. Aziraphale fights cleanly, but viciously and parries Gabriel’s every attempt to land a hit. The Archangel can’t even touch him, and Aziraphale barely even breaks a sweat. 

Frustrated, Gabriel pulls back to swipe a burning smear of hellfire from the side of his arm-guard where Aziraphale has grazed him. As a principality, Aziraphale was born with a complete mastery of the sword that no amount of pastry can truly diminish, and Gabriel is unaccustomed to fighting an opponent who knows all of heaven’s tricks.

“I don’t know why you bother, Aziraphale. She is going to recall you anyway. Now there's no Earth to guard, you'll be reassigned, and you'll have to forget all these ridiculous notions of yours.” Gabriel waves his axe in Crowley’s direction. Beelzebub catches the subtle hint and moves further around the side towards the burning wall. 

“You could still be useful to her. We could use an assassin, particularly one who's immune to hellfire if we want to finish Lucifer once and for all. But I’ll need someone who can follow orders,” Gabriel says.

“I want no part in your plans,” Aziraphale replies, raising his sword into an offensive posture. 

“Oh, what you want won’t matter. I'll burn the free will right out of you. I will take you and remake you how I see fit. And then you'll be what you're supposed to be—a weapon.” Gabriel smiles, a malicious and horrid contortion of his face that leaves no doubt that he’s not human. He turns his darkening gaze to Crowley. 

“One day, Crowley, he's going to come to your door, and he won't remember you or the filthy demon fingerprints on his soul. He will rend you limb from limb until you're nothing more than a bloody smear on the floor. Maybe then, I'll let him remember who he is.” 

A piercing yell erupts from Aziraphale’s mouth as he charges forward, red mist in his eyes and fury in his heart. It shakes the very ground and sends a shockwave through the line of angels, and they fall silent in a hush. Aziraphale drives Gabriel down until he’s disarmed, axe kicked aside and kneeling before Aziraphale’s blade. 

He is poised to make a killing blow, and the archangel’s jugular is bulging where the edge of his sword is about to press. It will all be over in seconds. Aziraphale can taste the victory, but a sharp pain in his own chest where his grace resides makes him pause.

Hatred is not a feeling angels are used to experiencing, and it freezes in his chest like an iceberg.

Crowley told him to be merciless, but Aziraphale still hasn’t killed anyone, and isn’t about to start now. He releases Gabriel, drawing his sword away from the other angel’s neck. 

“I knew you didn’t have it in you,” Gabriel’s face smooths out into a condescending smile.

Aziraphale staggers as the weight of a miracle hits him square in the back. At the edge of the field, Sandalphon stands with a hand outstretched and the gleam of heavenly power splintering out from a large crack across his face. Sandalphon stares at him with a blank gaze, but Aziraphale can see the sadistic twist of his smile as the miracle takes effect. Aziraphale drops his sword for a moment, and his vision blurs. 

Gabriel takes the opportunity and lurches back to his feet, charging towards Aziraphale, who manages to grab his sword back up and hold it up to the blow—but the miracle has done its job. He’s losing strength.

The weight of the swing of the axe where it meets his sword is heavy enough to drive Aziraphale to his knees in the mud. Gabriel’s eyes have darkened to the colour of midnight, and he presses his advantage against Aziraphale’s weakened position. 

Crowley hurls another ball of hellfire at him, but he deflects it easily with his shield, not lifting an ounce of pressure off the sword Aziraphale is fighting to hold. A tremor has started in his fatigued arms, and the bladed edge of the axe inches closer to his face. 

“Aziraphale, this is pointless.” Gabriel’s voice sounds at once both distant and close up, as if it’s inside his head but very far away, and his mouth isn’t forming the words. Behind them, Beelzebub has managed to subdue Crowley in a headlock.

“Gabriel, stop, please!” Aziraphale speaks aloud, trying to get the ringing of Gabriel’s true voice out of his ears. 

“You can end this yourself. Give up.”

“I won’t! I won’t let them die!”

“I don’t care, one way or another, what happens to a handful of humans. Killing your pet demon now would make me happy, but I can be reasonable.” Gabriel emphasises his point by allowing Azirphale to nudge the axe a bit further away from his eye. 

“I doubt that. What do you want?” Aziraphale grunts as Gabriel kicks him solidly in the chest, sending him sprawling backwards into the sodden earth. 

“I want you to let it go, for once in your miserable existence. You’re an angel for God’s sake. Act like it!” Gabriel lodges his axe in the ground, less than a foot away from Aziraphale’s head, and leans down close. 

“You spit in Her face every time you let that demon corrupt you, just like he corrupted the humans. He’d be laughing downstairs with his demon pals about how gullible you are, if I hadn’t just killed them all. You’re pathetic.” 

Beelzebub wrenches Crowley’s arm behind his back and lifts him half off his feet when he makes a dive to intervene. Behind them, the wall of hellfire starts to fizzle out as the rain begins to fall.

Aziraphale pushes himself back to a sitting position, and meets Gabriel’s glare head on, defiant for the second time in his life. His voice doesn’t waver, and he speaks low and angry. 

“Angels are supposed to love humanity. How are we any better than demons if we let them be destroyed?” The rain is falling in earnest now, and it clears the muddy tear tracks from Aziraphale’s face.

“He’s not better, Aziraphale. He’s a fucking hypocrite!” Crowley’s shout is cut off with a hiss as Beelzebub pulls tighter on his strained arm. 

“This ends now. Come back to heaven with us, and I’ll let your rag-tag little group of refugees leave before the whole planet expires.”

“And if I refuse?”

“It would be unwise,” he says, retrieving the axe. “Clean yourself up, you’re a disgrace.” Gabriel turns his back, telegraphing disgust and indifference as he walks away unguarded. 

Crowley breaks from Beelzebub’s hold, and launches himself bodily across the mud and muck to slide to a stop at Aziraphale’s side. There’s a small trickle of blood matting in one golden eyebrow where the axe came a little too close. Crowley miracles it away, only to smear mud on Aziraphale’s jaw with shaking hands. 

“Are you all right?” Crowley’s voice is unsteady with adrenaline. Aziraphale drops his sword finally, and takes Crowley’s hands in his own, but the heavy mud and heavier rain feed an exhaustion that renders his grip too slick and weak to hold. He has to let go. 

“Crowley, go! You must leave.” Aziraphale’s eyes beseech him, fingers flexing uselessly as he struggles to pull away.

“Not without you angel, not again!” Crowley grabs at him to drag him out of the mud and towards the ship, but Aziraphale is a deadweight against him. 

Aziraphale feels Crowley reaching for the edge of the veil, moving as if to stop time and take them both somewhere far away. He gathers Crowley’s hands tightly against his chest, gripping him until he stills, and looks Aziraphale in the eye. “Crowley, no! You mustn’t.”

“Let me make it stop, please angel. I’ll take us somewhere and they’ll never find us,” Crowley begs, but it’s a horrible lie and they both know it. Crowley sags against him, still desperate and confused. 

“It’s the only way, you know it is! Please Crowley, you have to take them and go. You can still save the humans.” Aziraphale pushes him back, and lurches towards the waiting crowd of angels, all looking on with an air of disgust and pity. 

The ground beneath them begins to shake, and the deep groan of tectonic plates shifting and fault lines forming knocks them sprawling apart. Aziraphale blinks the muddy water from his eyes, and in the blurry shapes and rolling earth he sees Adam lift Crowley under the arms and drag him screaming towards the ship. Crowely’s voice is lost in the howling wind, and his golden eyes burn, glasses long gone and face naked with anguish as he fights against Adam’s unrelenting grip. 

The hatch slams shut, and Crowley is gone. 

Aziraphale sends one last miracle their way, warding the ship and blessing it with all the love and protection his battered body can muster. The rockets fire up almost immediately, and the ship begins to ascend in the atmosphere, rising quickly above the thick clump of storm clouds until all Aziraphale can see are the glowing lights of the afterburn lingering on his retinas. 

He can’t let that be the last he sees of Crowley. The hurt and anger and desperation on that beloved face as Adam dragged him away have cut him deeper than anything Gabriel can do to him. But knowing Crowley will live, even if he might not, is still a decision he must stand by. As much as his selfish heart wants to break into pieces watching Crowley leave, he has one card left to play and he must not collapse. Not yet.

Aziraphale staggers as the earth rolls under his feet again. Gabriel, Beelzebub and Sandalphon are advancing back towards him, stone-faced and pristine again despite the rain and muck. The ground has split behind him, a gaping wound that has slashed its way across the grass, concrete and asphalt of the airbase. Steam floats up behind him, and the heat is like a desert sandstorm. 

“You’ve made the right choice. Now kneel and accept your punishment.” At Gabriel’s nod, Sandalphon raises a hand towards Aziraphale’s face. It’s the same hand that has turned a whole cities to salt and smited the countless souls found unworthy. Sandalphon draws the power to his fingertips, and they begin to glow. 

“Yes, I’ve made a choice. But I won’t kneel to you.” Aziraphale steps back, arms outstretched. The ground on the edge of the crevasse is starting to crumble, but it holds. He opens his wings behind him, feathers snapping onto the mortal plane with a loud crack. His halo shimmers into sight as well, gleaming blue-white like his eyes. 

“Then you’ve chosen death.” Gabriel raises his axe, ready to strike.

“No, I’ve chosen to fall.” Aziraphale closes his eyes, leans back and dives off the edge.


	4. Chapter 4

It had taken all of Adam’s strength to drag Crowley aboard, and the demon had left him sprawled in the docking bay with a miracled shrug that had the recoil of a bazooka. The g-force of the ship ascending into the sky has kept him there, jammed awkwardly against the floor, unable to do more than lie there and try to keep the contents of his stomach from escaping. When Adam manages to peel himself off the deck and look out a porthole, Earth is shrinking into the distance: he finally understands why it’s called the pale blue dot. It hardly seems real now that it is so far away. 

Adam bounces off bulkheads and staggers up the gang-ways as Crowley irons out the ship’s internal gravity. Drawing on his own infernal powers, Adam dodges and weaves around until he lands at the door of the bridge. It is quite definitely now welded shut from the inside. 

“AJ, please let me in.” Adam bangs on the heavy door, but it doesn’t budge.

“Fuck off!”

“I’m sorry! I know you’re angry, but please, you have to let me in. You shouldn’t be alone.” 

“I wouldn’t be alone if you hadn’t dragged me back here!” Crowley’s voice is a low and anguished snarl. “He would have come with us, I just needed more time.” 

“You heard what Gabriel said, he was going to kill us all. Aziraphale would die before he let anyone hurt you, even himself.”

“Look, I can’t do this now. If I lose focus for even a second we’re all going to explode, so shut up and let me get us out of here.” The rest is muffled by the closed door.

Adam slides to the floor beside the door, and rests his head back on the bulkhead. After Anathema taught him how to read auras, he’s watched everyone around him with extra care. Crowley’s aura hasn’t intrinsically changed over the course of their acquaintance, but Adam has definitely noticed how there is always a tendril of energy reaching out, seeking something. When Crowley and Aziraphale are together, the tendril finds what it’s looking for, and coils around its mate until the two energies are almost impossible to separate. 

Adam can see the aura now, and it’s the wrong colour entirely, with ragged ends pushing out under the door like the paw of a caged animal at the zoo. It looks a bit like his mum’s aura did after his dad passed away, and Adam pushes the comparison out of his mind before he can lose his own resolve. 

He will just have to wait the demon out, and hope that they can make it far enough away from Earth to stay safe. 

* * *

The ship breaks from the atmosphere, and all at once the shuddering stops. Crowley lets the ship settle into the weightless vacuum of space and keeps it at a low idle as they sail past the moon. The ship’s top speed is enough to cross the lightyears between solar systems in the span of less than half a human life—but with half a dozen planets and hundreds of moons between them and the edge of Earth’s solar system, he won’t risk anything near as fast. 

The ship feels like an extension of his own body, and he can feel the ebb and flow of his energy in the systems and circuits. He’s thought about this day almost constantly in the last fifteen years: he has obsessed and stressed about it, wondering if there is a better way or another plan to keep human civilisation from destruction. 

Crowley tried dozens of times to transport various life forms across open space, and each time it ended poorly. There had been significantly more damage than a leaf spot on the disappointing philodendron Crowley had chosen for his last test, and Adam had flatly refused when he suggested flying Dog to the moon. So they had agreed on a spaceship, wanting a physical method of transportation that wouldn’t rely on divine or demonic power to run. But they weren’t finished. 

Despite Adam and Crowley’s combined powers, they hadn’t succeeded when they tried to build a laser-propelled ship, and after one too many explosions than could be easily explained they’d gone back to the drawing board. Two weeks later, the world had ended. Now he’s just a glorified battery, and will have to hold it together long enough to find them a new home. 

Crowley plots a course that will take them safely past Mars, though for now the red planet is little more than a dot in the distance. There is a conspicuous empty space in the front seat of the car, and Crowley tries not to think too hard about that. 

His hands and clothes are still caked with mud from the fight, and Crowley despairs for the state of the carpets in the footwell of the driver’s side for a minute. He clings to that simple banal thought like a life preserver, but it’s not enough to drown out the voice screaming at him to go back. He’ll get them to Mars. Then he’ll go back, as soon as it’s safe. 

There is a clanging noise from the door of the bridge, and he spots Newt’s apologetic wave in the rearview mirror. Crowley suppresses an irritated growl at the ship for being weak enough to buckle under the simple powers of a glorified human. Anathema ushers Newt away quickly.

Adam opens the passenger door and peers inside with a guilty frown, unsure of his welcome. Crowley considers sending him away again, but suddenly the mud is gone and Adam’s red eyes dare him to be ungrateful. The glint of gold from his hand distracts him, and Crowley feels sick. 

He twists the ring around on his finger, but it won’t come off, no matter how hard Crowley tries to banish it from sight. His eyes prickle precipitously, so he pops open the glove compartment and pulls out a fresh pair of glasses.

“I’m sorry,” Adam says.

“So am I.” Crowley doesn’t elaborate that he’s sorry for himself more than anything.

“Aziraphale would want—” Crowley cuts him off with a snarl.

“No. If you want to keep breathing, you will not finish that sentence.” 

Adam swallows the rest of his words, and lets the silence stretch. Crowley once spent fourteen days waiting in a crocodile-infested swamp to tempt some colonials into sabotaging their own expedition. He can wait for Adam to take a hint. 

* * *

Aziraphale lands hard. The surface under his fingers is warm and smooth but has all the other properties of a quartz rock. He counts at least four broken ribs when he draws in a tentative breath, and his left wing is wedged awkwardly under the right one. Reaching inside his consciousness, he tries to draw on his heavenly connection to heal himself, but he can feel the frayed end of a severed connection waving about in the eddying swirl of his mind. His body still cracks and crunches back to full health, but that feeling of belonging is absent.

His eyes selfishly resist coming back open from where they have been screwed tightly shut on the way down. But when his irises finally adjust enough to the gloom, he doesn't find himself where he was aiming for. There is no pit of sulphur for a start.

The ground beneath him is partially opaque but glassy, and beneath it shapes are moving. There is a large dent, approximately shaped like an angel, which has damaged the surface, sending out thousands of spidery cracks in every direction. Aziraphale rolls and slides his way over to a more solid-looking area. Something slithers below, following his movements, and what looks like a large eye rolls open and blinks up at him from under the floor.

He struggles hastily to stand, cringing when more cracks appear around his feet.

The eye disappears, and something starts to erupt from the fissures at the center of the crater his fall created.

A man emerges, wearing a neatly tailored suit with a paisley red dinner jacket. He is tall and frighteningly handsome, with dark hair and a seriously pissed off expression.

"Who dares disturb me now?" The man strides towards Aziraphale, where he's tried to merge himself with the side of the cliff. "Oh for fucks sake, not you again?!"

"Lucifer," Aziraphale attempts the awkward bow he's seen Crowley do for Beelzebub, "oh great Lord, I'm sorry to bother you but,"

"Come to gloat have you?"

"No, my lord." Aziraphale tries bowing again.

"What on earth are you doing, Principality? Is that some angelic victory dance or something?" Lucifer gives him an offended glare.

"I'm not a Principality anymore, I just fell down here a few minutes ago... sorry about the um, dent in the floor. But I'm here to become a demon." Aziraphale stands up as tall as he can make himself (which is still several inches shorter than Lucifer), and smiles winningly.

Lucifer laughs at him, right in his face, for several minutes.

"Hell isn't hiring. Did you miss the part where there was a war, and we lost? You're on the winning side, for Pete's sake!" Lucifer gestures upwards to where the angry roar of angels has receded and only empty silence remains.

"Please, I have to become a demon! Lives are at stake!" Aziraphale's voice gets very shrill, and Lucifer swipes a weary hand over his face to wipe off the angelic righteousness Aziraphale is oozing on him.

“Why should I care? Earth and Hell are the same place now. I’ll just be stuck here on a flaming rock with the souls of the damned to live out my eternity because God is just that vindictive. The last thing I want is to be stuck with some bloody angel who’s evidently short a few brain cells and voluntarily wants to be a demon now!” 

“What about your son? Surely his life is worth something to you?” 

“Oh no, we are not doing this. You and that wretched idiot Crowley are the ones that put ideas in that boy’s head. You can’t come crying to me now that it’s all gone wrong.”

“Adam and Crowley are trying to do the right thing.”

“Oh, spare me.” 

“They’re brave and kind, and they’re risking their own lives to save the human race. They deserve a chance to succeed.”

“And how exactly does you becoming a demon help?” Lucifer rubs his temples as the headache he’s had since the war began intensifies in the face of the whole ridiculous situation. 

“If I stay an angel, I am a danger to them all. Gabriel hasn’t taken kindly to my defiance. He plans to make an example of me, and Adam and Crowley and the rest of the humans will just be collateral damage.”

“Seems like I’d be better off just killing you where you stand.” Lucifer smiles at him with a mouth full of sharp white teeth.

“You may be right. But it’s a long journey to a new world, and it will be difficult even with Adam and Crowley’s abilities. I give you my word I’ll make sure Adam stays safe.”

Aziraphale just hopes that deep down, there is some kind of paternal instinct. Lucifer looks for a moment like he wants to dismiss the whole idea, but he shrugs and snorts out a laugh.

“Oh fine. Not like it will make any difference anyway.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale says, kneeling down. Lucifer calls his power up from below and reaches for the side of Aziraphale’s face. He moves to bestow a demonic mark, but the ink crumbles and falls away like dust when it touches Aziraphale’s skin. 

“It didn’t work.”

“What?”

“It didn’t work! I’ve never had this problem before.” He bops Aziraphale on the side of his head again, this time with more force. Nothing happens.

“But I’m not connected to the rest of the host. I can feel where I ripped away from them.” 

“I don’t know what to tell you. I can’t put a mark on a being of grace, and yours is still there.”

“I can’t be a being of grace. I fell. I felt the connection break.”

“Look, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe She hasn’t let you go after all. Look, for all intents and purposes you’re still an angel. The host think you’ve fallen. If I were you, I’d leave while you still can. Start over, preferably somewhere far away from me.” 

“I’ll never make it past them,” Aziraphale says, voice glum. Lucifer glares at him, and kicks a chunk of glass noisily across the floor of the chasm. 

“Well, I don’t think they’ll notice you,” he says, grinning. “They’ll be too busy fighting me!” 

The devil’s face begins to change, his smooth porcelain complexion blushing a furious red that matches his dinner jacket. Horns sprout from beneath the mop of dark curly hair, and his towering height only grows. Aziraphale shrinks back as Lucifer takes up more and more of the space until he’s left staring at two dress oxfords, each the size of a Mack truck. 

Aziraphale tries not to take too much vicarious pleasure in the sound of screaming angels from above. He stretches out his wings and takes off, miracling himself into a more aerodynamic shape and plots a course for the stars.

* * *

Aziraphale is barely past Mars when a radio wave reaches him.

“Mayday, mayday. This is Starship 15, requesting assistance from anyone in the vicinity. We’re currently experiencing an engine failure -” a second voice interrupts the first, “We’re on fire you moron!”

Aziraphale peers ahead, searching the black expanse for any sign of a ship. The stars are getting brighter and denser in the sky, and everything looks like it could be a tiny flaming spaceship.

The red expanse of Mars draws his eye, and sure enough, cloaked in the shadow of Phobos is a tiny flare of flame.

The ship he’s located is small—no more than a forty person crew complement—and is most definitely on fire. Aziraphale counts ten people on the bridge when he lands on the nose and borrows the forward satellite dish as a hand hold. He waves in a way that he hopes is friendly, though he’s not sure if they look very comforted by his appearance. An older caucasian man hastily puts on his glasses, and the woman to his right deliberately bangs her head against the seat-rest. 

“Hello!” He greets them all with a wide smile. 

Only the asian woman in the pilot’s chair waves back. 

He snuffs out the fire and closes the damaged oxygen line before it can asphyxiate the crew, and floats back around to the docking hatch. The humans inside seem to be having some kind of argument, but he can’t hear it from outside in the vacuum. He elects not to wait, and miracles himself inside the ship.

“Good day,” Aziraphale says, before there is shriek and a sudden sharp pinch in the side of his neck. His vision blurs instantly, and he tries frantically to miracle himself sober, but the drug is already doing its job, and soon sobering up sounds less fun than just having a lie down on the floor. 

“Jesus Dave, what did you give him?” A woman’s voice asks.

Someone, presumably Dave answers, “All the ketamine we’ve got.” 

Aziraphale is unsure how long he’s unconscious. He’s also having some kind of out-of-body experience, which he tries not to panic too much about. But it continues long enough for him to watch his corporeal body get rolled over and poked and prodded by the one he assumes is Dave. He tries to protest when Dave starts cutting his clothes off and probing the various bloodstains and signs of injury with gloved hands. They load him onto a stretcher, and carry him away to another part of the ship, and he’s forced to follow along like a dog on a leash. 

He watches in horror as the rest of his clothes are systematically removed and put in bags before being shoved unceremoniously into the wake of the ship’s thrusters, and he can do nothing more than watch as his favourite coat is incinerated. 

He starts to come around as they’re trying to redress him, having sampled his blood and his feathers and determined that he’s probably not an alien. He floats back down into his own body, and opens his eyes, which startles Dave enough to send him scrambling back from the bed. 

They’ve put him in some sort of abominable jumpsuit, he discovers. 

“Was that really necessary?” Aziraphale asks, disgruntled.

“I’m gonna ask you this once, and you’re gonna give me an answer.” An American voice speaks through an intercom. 

Aziraphale miracles the restraints off his arms and sits up. Dave, who until now has been standing pressed against the corner of the room clutching a scalpel, starts muttering to himself to wake up. 

“And who might you be?” Aziraphale ignores Dave and addresses the disembodied voice.

There is the sound of a scuffle, and a young voice takes over. 

“Let it go, Steve. Here, let me talk to it,” then there is the sound of someone angry being put on mute. 

“We’re sorry. Please forgive us, and welcome to the Starship 15. I’m Natalie.” A viewscreen switches on, and Aziraphale sees the woman who had waved to him earlier.

“Nothing to forgive, my dear,” Aziraphale manages, though there is the matter of his recently deceased favourite coat.

“We have a thousand questions we want to ask,” she says, and shushes the others trying to peer over her shoulder.

“Yeah, starting with what the fuck, and ending with how the hell can you breathe in space,” one of the others pipes up. Natalie shoves him away from the microphone.

She glares at the rest until they shut up, before speaking again to Aziraphale. “Did you come from Earth to rescue us?”

“Not exactly. I was just, well, in the area so to speak,” Aziraphale says. 

“Our mission was to travel to Mars and set up for more expeditions, but we had some uh, technical difficulties… We thought we must have lost communications with home, because when we called, no one answered.” She gives him a brave smile, but Aziraphale can see how fragile it is. He considers his next words carefully, but there is no easy way to sugar coat it.

“I’m afraid there’s another reason. Earth has been destroyed,” Aziraphale says, softening his voice and adding as much benevolent angelic inflection as he can. A chorus of horrified gasps filter through the tinny speaker.

“Destroyed? By who?” Natalie’s voice is tremulous.

“Well, by God really,” Aziraphale says. It occurs to him then how it must look, when Dave, who had started to calm now starts eyeing his wings even more suspiciously. 

“And how do you fit into all of this?” Dave asks.

Aziraphale sighs, and weighs his response carefully. 

“Well, in the beginning there was a garden,” he takes a deep breath. “I was on apple-tree duty, and Crowley, he was my best friend…” Aziraphale tells them the story, but this time, he realises, it’s not the way he used to remember it. Crowley was always a shadowy figure who was there to foil Aziraphale’s own heroics. But now, Aziraphale finds himself telling a different story. 

“And he saved the rest of the humans?” Natalie asks. She’s the only one who’s eyes haven’t glazed over entirely by the end of the tale. 

“Yes, they’re out there, probably somewhere past Jupiter by now, on their way to a new planet. Which one, I’m not sure, Crowley never did get around to telling me that part of the plan.”

“Do you think they’ll come back for us if we can reach them?”

“I was rather thinking we could catch them up. This ship is designed for speed is it not?” Aziraphale cracks his knuckles and his neck and extends his magic towards the idle thrusters.

“Sure, but if they’re already as far as Jupiter, even the fastest ship will never make it in time.” Natalie looks downcast, before another young woman taps her on the shoulder. 

“Er, Natalie,” the new voice pipes up. “I’m reading two-thousand percent available power.”

“You all should buckle up, I’ve never flown a spaceship before,” Aziraphale says, excited. “How hard can it be?”

Aziraphale imagines the helm in front of him, and sets the thrusters to full. The ship blasts off from its orbit of Mars’s moon and streaks away from the red planet, leaving nothing but a bit of dust and the disintegrated remains of one well-loved Victorian-era coat in its wake. 


	5. Chapter 5

Jupiter looms. The giant roiling ball of hydrogen and helium makes Crowley acutely aware of his own insignificance, and his thoughts are a similar mess of swirling emotions. There is a quiet numbness that has set in, which Crowley refuses to call acceptance, but is more like admitting defeat. 

If he tallies up the number of hours and days he and Aziraphale have spent together, it scarcely represents more than a few decades, but it is enough time to leave Crowley feeling like a vital part of him has been cut out. His attachment is regrettable, and is a pain he would have spared himself if he wasn’t so weak. 

But Aziraphale is as necessary to him as air. It’s something a demon shouldn’t need, and they certainly aren’t made for love. He can survive without filling his lungs fifteen times a minute too, but the slow feeling of suffocation if he doesn’t is still miserable. He doesn’t want to face the prospect of never again feeling the air rushing into his body when he inhales a lungful of Aziraphale’s soft-scented cologne—or to feel it rush out of him, breath stolen by Aziraphale’s bright smile when the angel laughs at something he’s said. 

The Bentley has been keeping quiet since they left Earth, but as they slowly track past Jupiter and out through the edge of the belt, the car starts playing him music again. Freddie Mercury sings him a song about too much love, and he wishes not for the first time that he’d heeded the warning. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice comes through the speakers, and Crowley startles so badly he hits his head on the roof, knocking his glasses askew. 

“Angel? Where are you?” His voice betrays him with a desperate wobble. He clears his throat. “Wherever you are, I’ll come to you!” 

“No need dear, I’m just next door.” A small ship noses its way into view of the bridge, but it’s too far away for Crowley to see Aziraphale properly. He can, however, see the enormous scorch mark down the aft side, and the hasty miracle work holding the ship together.

“Aziraphale, that thing looks like it belongs in a junkyard, where on earth did you find it?” 

“Well, I found it near Mars actually, but yes, it’s seen better days. Permission to come aboard captain?” Crowley groans, embarrassed on Aziraphale’s behalf when the angel’s tone of voice manages to be simultaneously formal and suggestive at the same time. He can picture the rakish grin on Aziraphale’s angelic face, and laughter bubbles out of him against his better judgement. 

“Yes, yes, get over here you daft bastard.” Crowley slows the ship to a self-maintaining float, and flings the door of the Bentley open and heads for the cargo bay. 

* * *

Aziraphale opens the hatch and spacewalks around the ship, searching for an anchor he can use to tug the ailing vessel up to the Ark. 

“Not to worry, we’ll have you docked and safe in a jiffy!” Aziraphale radios the crew, who are all looking a bit green again now that he’s outside. He propels himself around to the back of the ship, and beats his wings to adjust course to bring them in gently next to the Ark. Imagining his wings to work in a vacuum while still nursing a ketamine hangover takes a few extra miraculous modifications to normal physics, but soon enough they’re moving in the right direction.

“My dear, this will be a bit, shall we say, delicate?” Aziraphale isn’t sure exactly how they’re going to get everyone aboard when Crowley’s ship is still moving at a significant speed. He supposes it would be easier to just carry them across the open space, but they’re not looking too well, mentally speaking, so marching in there and grabbing them and throwing them out an airlock might be a bridge too far. 

Mysteriously, when Aziraphale gets close enough, there is a port on the side of the Ark with the exact dimensions of the escape hatch for the ship. He moves around to the hatch side, and has to guide the ship in by hand. He isn’t quite quick enough getting one hand clear, and catches his knuckles on the edge of the half-ripped plating. It smarts, but the pain is inconsequential to the sheer molten joy of hearing Crowley’s voice again. 

Aziraphale manifests himself back inside the ship as the first of the safety locks on the shuttle start to unwind. There is a momentary pressure drop that signals the final bolt’s release, and then there are a dozen curious faces peering out of the small docking room.

“Do come in,” Aziraphale says, ushering them forward and not bothering to conceal his wings. He will have to wipe at least part of their memories if they’re going to survive the cognitive leap required to explain Crowley’s presence here in the vicinity of Jupiter, not to mention his own resistance to the vacuum of space. 

Adam bounds forward, excited by the prospect of meeting new people, and Aziraphale decides he may as well do the honours. Aziraphale is feeling a little tired after breaking a few too many universal laws, and is reluctant to go rummaging inside people’s minds, exhausted as he is. 

“You’ll need to settle them down a bit, so they don’t panic. But don't overdo it on the mind whammy. I speak from experience when I say if you go too hard, their brains get scrambled quite beyond repair.” Aziraphale winces when Adam’s first patient gets that googly-eyed expression that suggests they’re quite high on the good stuff. Adam shoots him an alarmed look, but Aziraphale just waves his arms in what he hopes is an encouraging manner and moves off.

He searches the crowd for dark sunglasses or bright yellow eyes, until a loud thump sounds at the back of the docking bay.

* * *

Crowley rips the glasses off his face so he can take in the sight before him unobstructed. Aziraphale looks up as he enters the room, eyes locking onto Crowley’s own, and it feels like a dislocated limb snapping back into place. The pain is abruptly absent, and only endorphins and euphoria remain.

Crowley pushes past the gathered crowd, legs driving him forward almost without conscious thought, until he’s falling. Aziraphale catches him, steadying arms grasping him around his ribs and crushing any remaining air right out of his lungs with the ferocity of his embrace. Crowley realises that he’s babbling, muttering endless nonsense into Aziraphale’s neck where he’s tucked his face away from the prying eyes of the crowd. 

“Angel, what happened? Are you…?” Aziraphale just grips him tighter and hushes him.

“I’m fine, dear. I’ll explain everything, but let’s perhaps move somewhere without and audience?” Aziraphale says, and maneuvers Crowley until he’s safely tucked under one arm. He fluffs his wings out, and the crowd parts in awe, watching them go with curiosity. Adam’s voice cuts across the top of the rising whispers, and manages to distract them long enough for Aziraphale to guide Crowley out of the room. 

Aziraphale takes him up to the bridge, cradling Crowley like an injured bird. To be fair, Crowley is pretty sure he’s shaking now that the adrenaline is starting to wear off. Aziraphale sits him down on a couch that is new to the bridge, but looks very much like the antique settee from the bookshop. It’s not exactly fitting with the aesthetic of the ship, but interior design is the last thing on Crowley’s mind at that moment.

He draws Aziraphale’s hand into his own, pressing a reckless kiss to bruised knuckles that leaves unmarred skin in its wake. Aziraphale’s fingers tighten around his, and the flare of some unfathomably intense expression crosses his face—it makes Crowley want to do it again. 

Aziraphale takes a deep, unsteady breath and schools his face into something safe and bland. Crowley suppresses a sigh. 

“How are you here?” Crowley asks, when the words finally manage to bubble their way past the messily bleeding heart in his throat.

“Long story, but the short version is that no one knows I’m here. They think I fell.” 

A fresh rush of panic hits Crowley, and his eyes skitter over the still-white wings, searching for a mark—but there is mercifully none to be found. Aziraphale’s eyes are still as changeably grey-blue as ever, but there’s no hint of devilry. 

“How did you escape?”

“Well, Lucifer woke up, so that was quite the distraction. I just flew away while everyone was otherwise occupied.”

Crowley pauses for a moment, now that the adrenaline has worn off. “Unrelated question,” he gives Aziraphale a curious look over— “what the hell are you wearing?” 

“Ah, yes. A bit more utilitarian than my tastes. But you see, my coat unfortunately didn’t survive the trip. I just couldn’t bring myself to try and recapture such a special garment.” Aziraphale gives him a coy expression that is swiftly followed by an overly dramatic pout. 

Crowley just gives him a benevolent smile and conjures a flawless replica of his usual outfit, as implored. He completes the look with delicate tortoise shell buttons, more tartan than can really be recommended, and a waistcoat that has seen better days but is as familiar as his own shadow. He lets himself be warmed by Aziraphale’s delighted exhalation. 

“You spoil me dear,” Aziraphale says, and flexes and stretches his shoulders in a happy wiggle. The coat moves with him like a second skin, fitted perfectly down to the last millimeter. 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head, angel.” 

“So where are we going?” Aziraphale asks, face flushed with happiness.

“Well, Alpha Centauri is always nice this time of year,” Crowley replies and stands, offering a hand to help Aziraphale up. He guides him, arm in arm, over to the waiting car and opens the passenger door for the angel to climb in, chivalrous bow and all. 

Aziraphale slides into the front seat and waits for Crowley to do the same, able to find some measure of comfort in such a well-oiled routine. He settles into the accustomed embrace of antiquated leather and it’s almost like coming home—the Bentley has seen them through two apocalypses now and Aziraphale just hopes she can carry them a bit further. 

The ship hums happily as Crowley gives the car her head, and sets them on their way out of the solar system. She’s not the first car in space, not since they started launching convertibles at random a few decades ago. But nothing human-made has travelled as far as they’re going—she will be the first.

* * *

The hours pass like days, and the whole bridge is mired in the molasses-slow leak of time. It feels not unlike the eons-long days they used to spend before being assigned to Earth. Crowley revels in it though, in the feeling of finally having nothing but time and no new apocalyptic deadlines approaching like an oncoming train. Aziraphale is back with him, where Crowley can see him, whole and hale and without the threat of Heaven’s rude interruptions. 

There is a giddy and new feeling that takes him when Aziraphale rests a hand on his shoulder, or thoughtfully massages the crick out of Crowley’s neck that has taken up residence now that he’s permanently crammed in the car. Aziraphale takes care of him, miracling his clothes and skin clean so he doesn’t have to expend the energy, and keeps his hair from turning into a birds nest. It’s so painfully kind, and Crowley does his best not to bleed his gratitude too pathetically over everything. 

There isn’t much room for wings in the confines of the car, but Aziraphale rarely hides his away. The humans on board have gotten used to seeing him trekking through the ship, feathers on full display, so he doesn’t bother concealing them anymore. Crowley’s own wings come and go, depending on how badly his neck is cramping, but he manages to rest the majority of them over the backrest of the driver’s seat and lets them dangle into the open space of the back seat. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it allows Aziraphale to at least see the worst of the ragged edges that need tidying. Crowley is definitely looking forward to the day they arrive and he can finally flex and flap them out to full extension. 

The freedom to do a lot of things awaits him when the journey is over, and sometimes Crowley can’t help but wish for a fast-forward button. But for now, he’s happy. Aziraphale is here. 

Aziraphale, for his part, seems reluctant to leave Crowley’s side for even a minute. But eventually Adam draws him out of the car, with the promise of a proper tour of what will be his new home for the foreseeable future. 

Crowley tries not to let the crushing weight of his own separation anxiety show, but it’s harder than it has any right to be for a creature of his longevity and previously solitary tendencies. 

He knows he can’t keep Aziraphale to himself forever, and, unless he wants the scales tipped towards evil, Aziraphale will need to go out and do good every once in a while. 

But for now, Crowley sits and he tries not to foment anything too untoward that will mean Aziraphale has to stay away longer than absolutely necessary. He wishes he was able to just shake it off, or join Aziraphale on his excursion outside their private sanctuary—but such freedoms are no longer in his job description.

He’s made a prison for himself inside the Bentley, his own infernal energy flowing out of him to power the engines and onboard systems. Aziraphale has offered to take his place several times already, but he built the ship with his own powers in mind and didn’t exactly have time to test it before Armageddon began. 

Aziraphale had been concerned when Crowley explained how the engines worked. But Crowley maintains that eighty years of driving a car with his imagination alone is sufficient preparation. He has enough of an understanding of combustion propulsion to make the ship fly, and thus far, the laws of physics have allowed it. 

For now the ship is his cross to bear. But it’s a small price to pay to have Aziraphale with him, and to be finally free of Hell.

* * *

Aziraphale is returned to him some hours later, looking worn out but otherwise happy. Adam bids them goodnight, and the slamming door punctuates the end of the day. 

“What you’ve done is remarkable,” Aziraphale says, after he settles into the front seat with a contented sigh. 

“Yeah, well. I had help,” Crowley mutters, trying not to get taken in by the angel’s sincerity. Remarkable is one word for it. Stupid is another, equally applicable word. 

“Just the same, the humans wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t for you.” Aziraphale gives him a smile that hits a bit too close to adoring, and Crowley has to shake himself. 

“Look, angel, not that I don’t appreciate the vote of confidence here, but there are still a million ways this could go badly wrong.” Crowley risks a glance to his left, and Aziraphale is frowning now. 

“Dear, I know the past few weeks have been tremendously difficult. But you mustn’t be so hard on yourself. Although it pains me to admit, I haven’t always been supportive of your ideas, even though you’ve been proven right more times than not. I want to change that.” Aziraphale radiates so much earnest regret, it almost hurts to look at. Crowley slides his glasses more firmly onto his nose and turns to look out the window. 

“Angel, you don’t have to apologise.” 

“It’s not an apology, it’s more of a vow of sorts—” Aziraphale slides his fingers around Crowley’s where the ring glints in the dim light of the cabin, “—though you do deserve to have both.”

“Ngk,” Crowley chokes on nothing, and Aziraphale draws his hand off the wheel so their hands can fold around each other, palm to palm. 

“So, tell me more about where we’re going,” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley takes a moment to marshall his thoughts into comprehensible words, distracted by the gentle movements of Aziraphale’s thumb on the back of his hand. 

“There’s a star system about four light-years from here with a planet a bit bigger than Earth. We should be able to get there in about ten years if we can travel at full speed. The humans probably can’t take much more than that.” 

“So we have some time then,” Aziraphale smiles and Crowley feels his own expression matching the angel’s shy enthusiasm. 


	6. Chapter 6

Interstellar exploration needn't be rough.

But it is.

Crowley has spent a significant percentage of his long life alone. He’s avoided the crowded halls of Hell in favour of nights and days spent in the clean austerity of his flat, or the solitude of the open road. But the more time he spends alone now, the more his mind fills the space. There is a feral greyhound in his head, running in endless circles, and it rehashes all his poor decisions, catastrophic failures and imagined slights. 

The human world brings with it a compulsion to evangelise for evil, and Crowley can’t help his fallen nature. It used to drive him out onto the streets, looking for a fix or a chance to earn the esteem of his peers. How many people can he drag under today? What is his weapon of choice? It’s the closest he’s got to a reason for his own continued existence, and some days it’s difficult to pretend he’s something better. 

A few centuries of the Arrangement hasn’t done what he’d hoped—no amount of blessing people and playing at being an angel again can entirely erase that need to cause trouble. It’s not enough to just wake up and decide he’s going to do good: he can’t stop those little compulsions any more than Aziraphale can stop his own pleasure-seeking behaviour. 

The people aboard are becoming fractious, and petty disputes are cropping up at every turn. Crowley can feel the malaise spreading like particularly tenacious fungus, and no one seems immune. Demons can certainly tell when evil is afoot, and the siren song of a human on the precipice of committing a sin makes Crowley twitchy.

Ordinarily, such broiling malevolence would make Crowley happy, finely attuned to disharmony and discord as he is. But the lure of it is more of a distraction than a help, and Crowley has to work hard to suppress the urge to escape from the bridge and stoke the fires outside just a little more. It’s an itch that just begs to be scratched. 

Aziraphale is doing his best to smooth out the ruffled feathers, but it’s not enough to stop Crowley from feeling their unrest. 

“Angel, please get them to tone it down, for Satan’s sake,” Crowley begs him when Aziraphale flops into the passenger seat looking defeated. 

“I’ve tried, Crowley! I’m afraid I only made it worse.” Aziraphale shudders at the mental image of the two humans he’d interrupted having a loud scrap in the cargo hold. He’d tried sending a miracle for a bit of peace and love, but it backfired on impact and he’d had to beat a hasty retreat when the argument turned lustful. 

“I guess I could try putting something in the water system?” Crowley suggests. Below them in the kitchen, a small child is about to steal something—Crowley is sure of it. 

“Best not, unless you’re prepared for the consequences if it goes wrong.” Aziraphale gives him a tired smile. “They’re just bored, I think. I’ll have a talk to Adam about inventing something to keep them a bit more entertained.”

“Yeah, well they’re not the only ones with cabin fever,” Crowley says, glaring at the steering wheel like it’s responsible for his predicament. 

“You could consider letting Adam drive for a bit? You could do with a change of scenery,” Aziraphale says agreeably.

“Tempting.” Crowley feels the tug as Aziraphale attempts to sway him, and in his current state he almost feels suggestible enough to consider it, but the angel relents.

“I know, I know. Too risky. Sorry, dear.” 

Fortunately, Aziraphale has enough virtuousness left to flood the Bentley with a bit of compensating energy. 

“Just, come here will you.” Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s arm and pulls him closer, until he’s blanketed by goodness, and the allure of doing evil has diminished. 

Aziraphale doesn’t protest the manhandling and scoots closer, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s shoulders and resting his head into the curve of the demon’s neck. There is relief in the yellow eyes that watch him fondly from the rear-view mirror. 

“Your hair is getting long again,” A wayward strand of ginger tickles Aziraphale’s chin. 

“You don’t like it?” Crowley moves to shorten it, but Aziraphale catches his hand.

“I never said that,” Aziraphale grins impishly and runs gentle fingers through the ends where they are starting to curl into natural waves. 

“Yeah, well, just don’t get it all tangled.” His face heats despite a stern warning from Crowley’s mind to the capillaries in his skin. 

Aziraphale doesn’t respond to the half-hearted complaint, and just runs a careful hand through the lengths, making sure they’re all perfectly soft and tangle free. 

The white noise from outside the bridge dims to a manageable level, and Crowley just focuses on the job at hand. Aziraphale will deny it if asked, but he falls asleep on Crowley’s shoulder a few minutes later. 

* * *

Aziraphale is greeted with pleasant smiles and mostly happy faces when he next ventures out into the ship. The mood has evolved again, changing into a more optimistic mode that Aziraphale feels confident will be less distracting for their resident pilot. There are still a few arguments going on, but they seem to have taken on a more playful tone.

“Of all the things you could have brought, champagne, caviar... you brought Spam?” Pepper favours Dave with a disappointed scowl.

“It’s practical! Easy to store rectangular container, lasts for ages.”

“Yes, but tell me the truth. Would you rather eat another can of spam, or jettison yourself out that airlock?” 

“Point taken,” he says, crestfallen. He puts the lid back on his can of Spam and heads for the exit.

“For a scientist, you have been a bit thick!” Pepper yells after him, before turning her pointed gaze onto Aziraphale, who has been watching the exchange with curious interest.

“You know, you could be a bit kinder to that poor young man,” Aziraphale chides, taking Dave’s vacant seat on the bench. It’s not that Aziraphale has any fondness for the coat-murdering biologist, but he is supposed to be promoting joy and goodwill.

“I don’t need relationship advice from the likes of you, thanks.” She shudders, and goes back to her book. He politely doesn’t comment on the waves of happiness he can read in her mood. 

“Of course.” 

Pepper gives him a sidelong glance, but she doesn’t get up and leave. 

“What’s on your mind, Mr Aziraphale? Did Mr Crowley get sick of you already?” She asks, folding her book closed again with a pointed snap. 

“Just Aziraphale if you please. And no, Crowley is fine. I just wanted to check in with our resident security officer to see if things had calmed down out here.” Aziraphale gestures to the gaggle of humans in the kitchen all laughing and sharing their food companionably. 

“Yeah, they’ve settled down. Adam gave them a razzing, but mostly everyone has found a way to entertain themselves that isn’t wreaking havoc. I’ve had a pretty quiet week.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And I appreciate you doing your best to keep the peace.”

“S’fine. It’s what I trained for.” She smiles at his confused expression, reaching into her knapsack to fish out a small black wallet. She hands it to Aziraphale: inside is a shiny silver Met badge.

"I became a Police Officer." Pepper smiles sadly. "It pissed my mum off a bit, joining the fascist regime and all. But I defeated War herself, so I guess I thought maybe I could do some good. Foolish, I know."

"It wasn't foolish, you were wanting to protect people," Aziraphale says kindly, though he's not seen much to recommend the local constabulary that he and Crowley have run afoul of, usually while inebriated.

"I was lucky, my Sargent was an angel, took me under his wing" —she laughs at Aziraphale's skeptical expression— "no, like for real. He was from upstairs, a former soldier like you, even had a totally bullshit cover identity. He was on assignment to Earth a few towns over in Sandford. Lot of evil there, apparently."

"I can't say we are acquainted."

"He knew you though, and me too. He helped me understand my abilities. I was scared I'd end up just like her," Pepper folds her hands in her lap, keeping her chipped nails and bruised knuckles concealed. “He told me I could choose who I wanted to be, and that fate could fuck off.” Her eyes mist over, caught in a memory so fond that Aziraphale feels his own eyes prickling in sympathy. He clears his throat and looks away.

"Sounds like a smart fellow. I presume he was recalled for the war?" Aziraphale asks, realising too late that the question is probably the wrong one.

"No, he wasn't."

"I'm sorry my dear, I know it isn't nice to think about, but everyone was recalled. I can't imagine any angel getting an exemption," Aziraphale frowns, puzzled.

"He wasn't an angel anymore, hung up his wings in 2023," Pepper tells him, laughing at his gobsmacked expression.

"He became mortal?"

"Yep. He did it for love, he said." 

"Love? Of a human?" Aziraphale huffs in disbelief.

"The world has seen stranger things. An angel and a demon, for example." Pepper smirks when the comment stops him in his tracks. He glares at her smug face, and resolves to have fewer heart-to-hearts with the humans aboard. Some of them are entirely too impressed with their own powers of deduction.

“Yes, well, we aren’t talking about me.” Aziraphale doesn’t bother with a denial. He might be here on a humanitarian endeavour, but none of this would have happened if it weren’t for a certain demon—Aziraphale wouldn’t have left Heaven for anyone else. The idle indulgence in the idea that Crowley might love him back won’t hurt anyone other than himself. 

He knows Crowley—knows that he surely must feel similarly to Aziraphale after all this time. But love isn’t going to feed thousands of hungry humans, so he can’t expend too much energy on the feeling now. His resources are large, but finite and love is something he will have to ration. 

Pepper seems cheered by the idea all the same, and Aziraphale takes his leave as she goes back to her book. 

* * *

Time is a nebulous concept this far out in the black. Aziraphale has always been prone to fits of melancholy and deep introspection about things that are ultimately inconsequential to a being of his nature. But the events of the last year have drawn him back to that old existential quandary, and to the questions that he's not allowed to ask. 

It's one thing to idly ponder ineffability and all the contradictions therein. But when faced with the real-world practicalities, he's finding himself more inclined to voice those questions out loud, even if only to himself and Crowley. Now that the fires from confrontation and righteous fury have burned away, he has to acknowledge that he's not all that confident about the path ahead anymore. He wonders if they're not so far in uncharted waters that they've fallen off the theological map entirely.

"What will happen to them in the end? The ones we’ve saved I mean. It's been bothering me—and we left in such a hurry—that I'm afraid we might have overlooked the rather significant issue of human mortality." Aziraphale studies the ragged edges on the fingernails of his once-neat right hand. He's healed fourteen different cancers, a broken ankle, and two strokes just in the last week alone. He'd like to blame it on the general inhospitality of space, but frailty seems to be a defining characteristic of the human condition. 

"They're fine! Bubbling along like good little humans. Before you know it they'll be multiplying." Crowley waves away Aziraphale's concerns with a deliberate blitheness that never fails to irritate. In Aziraphale’s experience, Crowley rarely acknowledges gaps in his brilliant plans, until push comes to shove and avoidance is no longer feasible. Aziraphale still admires his capacity for incredible foresight and radical ideas, but sometimes he's his own worst enemy. Especially when he thinks Aziraphale is just spoiling his fun.

"One of them is bound to shuffle off eventually Crowley, and then what? Hell is closed for business, and Heaven's under new management. Unless the almighty Herself has a backup plan, I'm afraid we'll just end up on a ship full of ghosts." 

"Look angel, I worked in acquisitions not retention, so it's really not my _métier_.” Crowley’s idea of a French accent is a confusing mess of ‘eh’s’ in incorrect places. “Besides,” he continues, “didn't the Archangels scoop up all the pious ones already? From what I saw we ended up with all the leftovers and the atheists. They're not expecting anything."

Aziraphale pauses. All the virtuous humans are given the option to go to Heaven if their religions permit such a concept. If no such concept exists, they will have simply been shepherded upwards with the idea of sorting it out later—which is problematic at best. Most of the passengers under Aziraphale’s care now are the ones who found Adam’s offer of a continued corporeal life of adventure more appealing. Taking an angel’s word for it that eternal bliss really did await them was a bridge too far for most. 

"I suppose you’re right. They know the risk they’ve taken. Still, it’s something to consider." He knows of the two of them, Crowley has the harder task, but keeping the humans alive and keeping morale up is frankly exhausting.

"Sure angel, put it in the minutes and we'll address it later, but for Satan's sake, can I please just drive in peace for a while? This prolonged sobriety is doing my fucking head in." Crowley presses on the accelerator carelessly, and the Bentley growls her displeasure.

"In another life, maybe we're enjoying a nice single malt by the fireside," Aziraphale muses, letting his wings droop and his eyes fall shut.

"Low blow, angel," Crowley groans, banging his head on the wheel in dismay. Aziraphale smiles, eyes still closed but no less amused by the truly pathetic moaning from his companion. “Yeah, fine, you just nod off, I’ll make sure we don’t disappear into a black hole, shall I?” Crowley’s grumbling trails off eventually, and the quiet hum of the ship drags Aziraphale even further towards the temporary relief of unconsciousness. He’s just so tired.

* * *

Crowley leaves his head resting there on the wheel, neck craned left, and watches until angelic features slacken with sleep. White-winged shoulders curl towards him, seeking protection while Aziraphale rests, and Crowley basks in the diffuse heat in the decreasing distance between them. 

He imagines the fireside, warm and crackling, and Aziraphale's presence, soft and close, the world narrowed down to a fond smile and the scent of scotch and woodsmoke. For a moment, it almost staves off the chill of the empty vacuum outside.

It’s a selfish thing, to use his imagination for something personal when so much as a stray thought could discorporate them both, and the rest of humanity with them. But too much altruism wreaks havoc on the demonic constitution, and he’s starting to feel the strain.

Crowley turns his eyes back to the open space ahead, and lets his mind go blessedly blank.

* * *

Aziraphale haunts one of the many kitchens in the quiet hours when no one else except the insomniacs are wandering about. He's holding an empty milk carton, staring at the complicated array of rubbish bins, each with their colour codes and confusing pictographs governing what can be placed inside (one of Crowley's great inventions, no doubt). It's the three little arrows in a triangle on one of the bins that make him pause.

"Reduce, Reuse, Recycle," he reads, thinking again of lost souls and closed gates. 

Aziraphale decides on the bin with the red lid, and jams the carton inside and slams the lid back down before the overflowing contents can escape. He’s too slow though, and a small waterfall of garbage falls out and onto the crosshatch grille of the deck. Swearing, he gathers it back up and chucks it in the sink for one of the humans to deal with. 

Nestled in the bottom of an empty yogurt container is a small pack of mint flavoured Nicorette. All at once, the craving hits and Aziraphale finds himself wiping off the outside of the packet and ripping a piece out of the wrapping and stuffing it in his mouth with a blissful sigh. Such desperation is unbecoming, and not something he would stoop to on Earth of course—but out here, he has to admit his precious standards are starting to slip.

Although not strictly in the remit of an angel of the lord, Aziraphale chooses to believe that it’s a karmic intervention, providing him with comfort in his hour of need. He always did his best thinking aided by the silly human ritual, and indulging in the addictive and stimulating effects the drug has on his corporation’s nervous system feels nice.

He's not proud of the fact that he’s pulled it out of a bin, but the real McCoy has an aftertaste of sin that miracled nicotine can't really replicate. Aziraphale chews methodically until the gum has shrunk down to a hard rubbery glob with little flavour left. It feels like a waste to spit it out, so he just keeps it there in the side of his cheek and tries to imagine the soothing effects.

Of the two of them, Crowley is the only one to have properly kicked the habit—and he's become rather obnoxious about it, in Aziraphale's opinion. Aziraphale has resorted to furtively sneaking onto the laneway behind his shop in the past, anxious to grab a few drags before the demon can catch him. No amount of breath mints or miracling smoke out of his clothes can stop the withering judgement Crowley bestows.

In all other areas, Crowley is positively indulgent about Aziraphale's addictions, whether it be rare books or French pastries. But smoking is apparently where he draws the line—and with the righteous hypocrisy of a reformed ex-addict, he patently refuses to be in the presence of cigarettes or their lingering stench.

It seems like an age ago, but Aziraphale remembers the two of them tucked up together in the bookshop, surrounded by a thick smoky haze. Crowley always smoked with an effortless moviestar panache that Aziraphale loved to watch. His sleek lines had seemed softer then, muted by the billow of each exhaled breath. The glowing end held artfully between two fingers was not unlike the brightness of his supernatural eyes. Crowley had seemed at once both comfortable and yet somehow untouchable.

Back then, the arrangement and Heaven's (not all that metaphorical) axe-hanging threat kept Aziraphale from straying too close. But for all the closeness they share inside the Bentley now, he misses that illicit intimacy of a shared vice.

Crowley would probably pitch a fit if he suggested they enjoy just one more cigarette together in the front seat for old times sake.

At any rate, Aziraphale can agree that nicotine is most certainly the work of the devil, but sometimes it's what his body is clamouring for, sinful or not. Whether Crowley truly hates it, or is just terrified of backsliding, Aziraphale isn't certain. It could go either way, and Crowley can be sensitive about unexpected things.

But out here in the recycled air of the ship that Crowley is holding together with sellotape and bloody-mindedness, he will most certainly know if Aziraphale sparks up. So he resigns himself to a few decades of gum, and hopes that among their collection of humans there might be a few to keep up the habit once they've arrived, unhealthy though it is for them.

Aziraphale makes his way back to the forward end of the ship and sneaks back onto the bridge. He stashes the last half of the gum packet in a small alcove at the back of the room before Crowley can see him. He's not hiding it exactly, but what Crowley doesn't know can't end in them having a row.

Aziraphale has gathered quite the collection of contraband now. A small flask of vodka sits at the front, a gift from a young woman named Katie whose prayer he answered.

There are the last two scotch finger biscuits in a ripped wrapper, stored carefully in an old lunch box. They got crushed in the rush to pack for Armageddon, but a young man named Jack had offered them as thanks for Aziraphale blessing his dog. Bobbie the German Shepherd would now live to the ripe old age of 42 and get the chance to stretch his legs on another world.

But the one thing he's saving is more precious than the others, and it's not something he's saving for himself. With all the darkness that is sure to come, he just hopes it might be enough to put a smile on a certain demon's face.


	7. Chapter 7

They are an insignificant ten-thousand-soul speck in the empty black vastness.

Aziraphale walks among the people when Crowley ushers him out of the Bentley with faint exasperation. Sometimes he can be a bit too heavy-handed with the mother-henning. 

Adam joins him more often than not, nattering away about whatever gossip is doing the rounds. The children are growing by the day, and the ship is no longer a sterile and austere affair—it certainly smells well inhabited.

The humans have been getting restless again, and while making sure they have enough food and water goes a long way towards keeping them from rioting, there is still an acrimonious cloud of discontent brewing in certain quarters. 

Apparently their resident astronauts are still struggling to adjust to the idea that interstellar travel is possible and that even worse, the ship is being piloted by a demon with no previous experience at spaceflight. Despite their personal experience with Aziraphale, none of them seem ready to accept the idea that magic is real. 

Aziraphale doesn’t want to find out what will happen if the mood on the ship plummets. His own (mostly minor) frustrations can be enough to agitate Crowley, so he tries not to speculate about what might happen if everyone aboard loses their temper at once. The ship will probably explode.

Aziraphale visits Anathema on the days when Crowley has been especially caustic or overbearing, and he appreciates her quick wit and keen appreciation for literature. 

Her husband has accepted his lot with remarkable grace, considering he’s been contained in what looks from the outside like a padded cell belonging in a sanitorium rather than a space-ship. But he has to be kept as far away from anything electronic as possible. Aziraphale isn’t sure exactly what gives him his abilities, and has been powerless to do anything more than reinforce the shielding around his cell from time to time. 

The witch herself is burdened in a different way, and Aziraphale finds himself visiting her out of his own selfish desire to be reassured that everything will be okay. Anathema doesn’t have her great aunt’s gift to the same degree, but she can usually sense if things are generally moving in the right direction. 

“How goes it, my dear? Anything to be discerned from the tea leaves this morning?” Aziraphale asks pleasantly. He actually has no idea how Anathema comes by her predictions, but tea leaves seem as sensical as anything else.

“Nothing new,” she says, giving him an upraised eyebrow over the rim of her teacup. “I promise you’ll be the first person I tell if we’re about to be attacked by aliens.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, you know,” Aziraphale says primly, and downs the rest of the tea Anathema poured him. He ignores any alien-shaped blobs that might appear in the dregs.

“How is Crowley?” 

Aziraphale bites back the reflexive ‘fine’ that is his usual answer so as not to alarm anyone unnecessarily, but the truth is that he is worried, and Anathema and Adam are the only two people on the ship he can really talk to outside of the demon himself.

“He’s tired. I’m doing my best to cheer him up, but I’m afraid his temper is on a short fuse.” 

“We have similar tasks, I think.” Anathema gestures to the containment cell where Newt is staring moodily out into space. 

“Any tips? I’m afraid that he’s finding my very presence irritating this morning.” Aziraphale doesn’t hold out much hope that the young witch will have any insight that his own centuries of experience won’t provide, but her gift sometimes allows her to see things from a different angle. He likes that about her, even if her suggestions are a bit too far out into left field. 

“Wish I had some, but I don’t. The situation sucks. But it won’t always be like this… we’re gonna make it.” She smiles gently at him, as if he were some silly mortal who might shatter into a thousand pieces from the stress. 

“Quite right, everything will be tickety-boo. Just you wait and see,” he agrees, as if he can make it happen just by saying so. He tries to ignore that voice that tells him happily ever after is a big fat lie. 

“Why don’t we go and see Adam, maybe he has some ideas.” She smiles and links an arm through his, guiding him over to the door.

“I suppose stretching my legs couldn’t hurt,” Aziraphale says, and lets her take the lead.

* * *

Crowley isn’t pissed off, per se. He’s just tired, and no one can be held responsible for their actions if they’ve been awake for more than a thousand hours in a row. At least, that’s what he told himself that after he kicked Aziraphale out of the Bentley that morning. 

Goodness like Aziraphale’s has a duality that is hard to ignore when you’ve been subjected to it for more than six millenia. It rides the edge of insufferability, or worse, it can devolve into outright zealotry that rubs Crowley the wrong way when he’s feeling less indulgent. All the love in the world can’t sand off those sharp points that slide so easily under a chink in the everyday armour of the identity Crowley wears. 

It’s the darker days that draw those spikes out where they can cause the most grief and irritation. When any evidence of a benevolent force has been erased by some great suffering visited on humanity, Crowley finds all that piety and sunny-side up frankly unpalatable. Aziraphale knows exactly how to push his buttons, and it's more often Crowley who has to bend, who has to let it go. Compromise isn’t an inherently demonic trait, but he’s always been better at seeing shades of grey in the black and white world of angels.

Aziraphale, to his credit, is nowhere near as bad as the rest of the host. All that exposure to humans (and to Crowley: he would like to take at least part of the credit), has had the effect of moderating the worst of Aziraphale’s heavenly convictions. He always was clever enough to find enough nuance to navigate around his own less virtuous desires. But when the chips are down, which happens with unfortunate regularity, Aziraphale’s dogmatic default leaves little room for Crowley. 

Empathy for the devil you’ve been seeing socially for several thousands of years can be hard to reconcile in that light. Particularly against devotion to a higher power that manifests only—as far as Crowley can tell—to cause immeasurable pain and misery to the very creatures you’ve been tasked with shepherding. 

Aziraphale isn’t unsympathetic though, despite that saintly moral code that finds Crowley wanting in a number of areas. Angelic love is a harsh thing, exacting rather than forgiving and governed by strict borders—to love God, and humanity in general, but nothing else specifically. No free will to choose. 

In Aziraphale, love is soft and it’s multifaceted in a way that allows a few rays of light to still reach into the depths of where Crowley has fallen. It’s love for words and stories, for food and drink and the joy in sharing all of that with another soul who understands. 

Divinity, though, that still tastes sharp. It’s like munching on freshly broken glass. If chewed carefully with a mouthful of something else, it might be safe to for Crowley to swallow. But on its own, it’s gritty and tasteless and cuts your throat to ribbons if you try to force it down. The other angels Crowley’s encountered tend to shed ruthless religiosity on everyone in the vicinity, and would melt him where he stands just for existing. But Aziraphale keeps his divinity wrapped beneath a few layers of fallibility and bastardry that makes him easier to take—it makes him so perfectly imperfect that Crowley finds him worth the effort. 

Still, he plans accordingly. He’s always honest—sometimes brutally honest—with Aziraphale. Ultimately, omission is the only survival tactic he has when Aziraphale’s hastily-remembered devotion to duty rears its head. 

His own downward spiral is proof enough that divine angelic love has conditions. It drives forward the wheels of war and it gets taken away if you step out of line. It rewards you with commendations and praise when you excel in its name, and casts you out when you falter or fail.

It's said that demons can't love, and such a convenient narrative has been perpetuated by angels who wish to feel no compassion for their outcast brethren. However, never let it be said that angels are always right. Of course there's no love lost between demonic rivals, and you're always only one well-timed stabbing away from a promotion or a betrayal. And yet, demons have wants and desires like any sentient being. 

Generally, demonic love is selfish. It's about control and ownership and status and all of those things that Cosmo says are toxic. But sometimes, it's about a desperate plea to be known and understood by someone else, to be a part of something bigger than yourself. The great lie of Hell is that if everyone went around being non-stop balls-to-the-wall chaotic evil all day, the fabric of the whole underworld would collapse. It's just not sustainable. 

So there's hierarchies and alliances and mutually assured destruction. But there are conventions and procedures and traditions too. And if nothing else, Crowley knows how to work a system for his own benefit, without causing the whole thing to dissolve into entropy.

So he loves Aziraphale, both selfishly for his own ends and selflessly in pursuit of a greater agenda. Time has a way of muddling things too, and love can become a pathology that you're powerless to correct. 

He should have known better than to raise the subject of the ineffable bloody plan, but hearing Aziraphale blather on about God and how everything will work out has a special way of getting his goat. Aziraphale should fucking know that sometimes bad things happen, and no one is going to step up and take responsibility, least of all the blessed Almighty. 

So he waits and hopes for the day when Aziraphale stops craving the validation of his kind, a day when Crowley’s own regard will be enough for him. There are several blank spaces in the fabric of their relationship that he longs to fill in - to omit nothing and share everything. The risk of Aziraphale being held back by his conditioning, or worse, being activated like a heavenly bomb still scares him. 

He knows Aziraphale will not hurt him, not intentionally anyway. His heart has chosen to love Aziraphale despite the risk of ruin. The angel is a perfect match, complementary in every way and beautifully individual and unique. But Crowley still holds back, and tries to protect himself from Aziraphale’s less favourable track record, and the fear lingers. 

Love with your eyes open, Crowley always says, lest you find yourself in another pit of sulphur. 

It is awfully quiet in the Bentley when the angel is elsewhere, but he still has his pride.

* * *

As soon as Aziraphale and Anathema open the main bay door to the lower deck, it becomes apparent that something is terribly wrong.

There is screaming, yelling, and lots of metallic crashing noises.

“Aziraphale, you have to do something!” Anathema pleads, tugging him along the lower deck as fast as she can. “Someone could be hurt!”

“It’s fine, I’ve got it under control!” Adam yells from somewhere much further down the gangway. The roar of a very large, very angry animal would seem to contradict him.

A group of unwashed and unkempt humans emerge from the shadows and hustle their way past Aziraphale and Anathema. Another loud thud and the scrape of claws on metal echoes up the corridor.

“Adam?” 

“It’s fine, I’m awake now. The dinosaur is gone.” Adam pops up from under the gangway as they round the corner. “I evacuated it into space.”

“Dare I ask why there was a dinosaur on the ship?” Aziraphale rubs his temples.

“It was there to eat the cannibals. Still not sure what I’m going to do about them.” Adam looks guilty. 

“Why, pray-tell, are there cannibals being pursued by dinosaurs on this ship?” 

“I was just daydreaming, I swear. I didn’t realise I was resting on one of AJ’s power conduits. It won’t happen again.” Adam looks downcast, but Aziraphale is unmoved. 

“It had better not, young man! I’ll just go and sort out the ones who look like they might try snacking on the other passengers. You stay here, and for heaven’s sake, try to keep your mind on the job at hand!” Aziraphale turns on his heel and stalks back up the walkway after the shambling group of humans. He doesn’t see the sad cow-eyes the Antichrist gives him as he leaves.

“Sorry Aziraphale,” Adam calls after him, and scuffs a boot on the deck dejectedly. He picks up the wrench he’d had to drop when the dinosaur went screaming past and turns back to what he was supposed to be working on. The new water recycling unit is in pieces still, and he promised Crowley it would be up and running within the day. 

Anathema pats him on the shoulder in consolation.

“So you decided not to tell him about the pirate detective from last week then?” 

“I’m in enough trouble as it is.” 

Adam had had to enlist Anathema’s help with that one. The guy had been remarkably hard to pin down, even with the peg leg and vision impairment. They’d been led on a merry chase twice around the ship before Anathema tempted him into an airlock with an old treasure chest and a sad story about her missing husband. 

“Is he all right?” Adam asks, not needing to specify who he meant.

“Trouble in paradise, I think,” Anathema replies, sliding to sit on the workbench. 

“Yeah well, must be frustrating being stuck in that car all day. I’ll miracle them a bottle of champers. That should lighten the mood.” 

“Well, not too light I hope. I’m pretty sure Crowley needs to concentrate on flying the ship, not romance.” 

“Fair call, I don’t know if they go in for that stuff anyway. I mean, Uncle AJ is a massive sap, but Aziraphale has always seemed a bit... too buttoned up.”

“It’s always the quiet ones,” Anathema says mysteriously. Adam glares at her. 

“Stop it! My mind needs to be a pristine environment. I don’t want to be responsible for causing anything else that Aziraphale might find alarming.” 

Anathema ruffles his hair and stands. Newt will be wondering where she’s gone.

None of them can keep the date straight in their minds after all this time in space, but Adam does a quick calculation. Behind his back, he miracles a bottle of Moet. 

“Anathema,” he extends the gift towards her, “I think you and Newt deserve a nice night in too. It’s your anniversary this week, right?” 

“You remembered!” she squeals with delight. Adam had been there at the wedding, along with the rest of The Them. “I was right,” she says, happily. “You were the sweetest kid in the village.” 

“I was a nightmare, you’re just remembering wrong.” He grins and waves as she leaves him to it, and there’s a lightness in her step that makes him glad.

Adam tries not to worry about Aziraphale and Crowley, but he conjures a bouquet of roses and a box of chocolates onto the roof of the Bentley just in case. He has the feeling Aziraphale needs to apologise for something, even if it wasn’t all his fault - and his mum always said if you’re going to say sorry, say it with flowers or booze. She wasn’t picky, his mum.

Dog finally reemerges from the cabinet under which he’s been hiding, and greets him with a cheery bark.

“And where were you when that dinosaur needed rounding up, hey? Some hellhound you are.” Adam scritches between two black velvet ears, and takes a moment to mentally tidy away any more thoughts of dinosaurs or aliens or anything else that might go awry. 

* * *

When Aziraphale returns to the bridge, a familiar song is blasting from the Bentley. There are also flowers and a box of chocolates sitting very pointedly on the roof of the passenger side. Aziraphale sighs a long drawn out exhalation and tries to let go of the cloud of irritability that has been following him around all morning. The roses are beautiful, and the chocolates are the perfect mix of Crowley’s and his own personal favourites, so he squares his shoulders and opens the door. 

Freddie Mercury aurally assaults him, but the grin on Crowley’s face makes it worthwhile when he spies the gifts. The music turns down to a polite volume almost immediately.

“All right angel?” Crowley asks, bemused. “You’re not usually one for sucking up.”

“If you don’t want any chocolates, then I shall head back out and take these with me. I’m sure there would be some grateful humans out there who would appreciate them,” he says, laughing as Crowley makes grabby hands at the box. 

“I’m sorry about before,” Crowley says around a mouthful of hazelnut truffle. 

“Nothing to apologise for, you’re just doing your best,” Aziraphale reassures him.

“Still, I just don’t want you to think I don’t… appreciate everything,” he says, waving his arms in a circle that Aziraphale interprets to mean his own mighty angelic forbearance and continuing devotion to Crowley’s mental health. 

Crowley actually means Aziraphale’s ability to know what he needs even when he doesn’t. 

“I know, Crowley.” Aziraphale smiles at him, and it’s only a little bit smug. 

The roses smell lovely, and the faint perfume they give off is enough to let Crowley imagine he’s driving through the country air with the windows open and the spring breeze in his hair. The effect is only momentary, but it’s nice. 

But like all temporary reprieves, the peace doesn’t last. 

* * *

Anathema wakes up gasping. 

There is a heavy weight on her chest and her arms feel like they’re made of lead, keeping her pinned by gravity like a butterfly on a board. It’s unsettling, and her breathing is loud and harsh in the quiet gloom of their quarters. 

“Hey, are you awake?” She nudges Newt with uncooperative fingers, but he just groans something unintelligible and rolls further away. Feeling comes back into her arms in a stinging barrage of sensation, and the numbness begins to fade. 

On first inspection, the logical culprit is the champagne. It’s been years since she’s had any alcohol, and her tolerance is next to zero. The headache that bursts behind her eyes when she tries to roll over sends black ripples over her vision, leaving an inverted afterimage of white hot fire. Hangovers are not meant to be prophetic, but this one feels like it is. 

She wants to tell Newt about it, but at the same time doesn’t want to add to the anxiety that’s been dogging him since they left Earth. He’s been convinced he’ll break the ship if he so much as sneezes in the wrong direction, and has nightmares of his own about being trapped in a lifeless ship, drifting in space while everyone around him perishes. 

Newt’s fears have been planted like seeds in Anathema’s own subconscious, and sorting out what is real prophecy and what is just a bad dream isn’t straightforward. Still, Anathema drags her old leather-bound journal and a pen from the side table and jots down the details anyway. 

Agnes never left any kind of helpful information about what medium her visions took, only the content. Anathema has often wondered if Anges saw it all like a film when she closed her eyes, or was it just a simple surety that she knew what was going to happen. Was the quill she used guiding her hand to write down the events of the future? Or was it tea leaves and entrails or something more gruesome?

Anathema has tried it all, just in case, but nothing thus far has seemed to make any sense. She’s made some accurate predictions about inconsequential things, and that has at least entertained and cheered Aziraphale up when he’s been feeling maudlin. However, her journal is a wild disjointed mess of confusing threads and strange non-sequiturs that doesn’t paint the same picture as Agnes’s neatly indexed book. 

She scribbles a rough sketch of what she’s seen anyway, and the burning globes of light on the page look more like spaghetti and meatballs when she’s done. The adrenaline of waking so suddenly has worn off now, and she just droops onto her side with one hand propped under her head. 

Anathema stares at the open page until sleep takes her under. 


	8. Chapter 8

Adam flags him down with a harried expression on his face, and two angry older women flanking him. Usually, Aziraphale would find himself having urgent business elsewhere in the ship, but Adam looks so bothered that he takes pity.

“Good morning Adam, ladies.” 

“Aziraphale, please tell me you speak some other languages! The ships translator usually takes care of it, but for some reason it’s not working.”

It is at this point that one of the elderly ladies pokes Aziraphale in the chest with one arthritically gnarled finger and starts shouting loudly.

“Do you have any idea what she’s saying?” Adam asks Anathema, who has arrived just in time to see Aziraphale pressed back into the railing with an alarmed look on his face.

“No clue.” 

Aziraphale smiles at the woman with his practiced “hello, I am an angel of the Lord” expression that elicits one of two reactions—gooey-eyed devotion or a punch in the face—and nothing in between. The old lady looks like she’s considering the second option.

“Please, I assure you, it’s all a misunderstanding,” Aziraphale tells her. His voice translates itself into her first language before it hits her brain, although he has no idea what she’s yelling about in the first place. He just miracles her into a better mood and sidles away.

Both ladies shuffle off back towards the kitchen, dazed but happier. Adam slaps Aziraphale on the arm.

“You can’t just miracle people into getting along!” Adam glares at him. Aziraphale just gives him a haughty grin. 

“I can and I did!” 

“And what happens next time?” Adam yells, and Aziraphale is taken aback momentarily by the accusatory tone.

“Oh dear, yes well, Crowley’s Tibetan always was a bit limited.” And by limited, Aziraphale means mostly comprised of swear words and inappropriate comments about one’s parentage. The monks Crowley used to associate with were a colourful lot. 

“So you’re telling me we’re relying on Crowley’s demonic equivalent of Google Translate?” Anathema asks.

“We’re doomed,” Adam says, gloomily. 

“If there’s a problem with the French, you’re on your own!” Aziraphale bids them good day and while he doesn’t exactly run the other way, he certainly doesn’t linger. 

“Thanks for nothing!” Adam shouts after him.

“I know we’re supposed to respect the fact that he’s an angel and everything, but sometimes he is pretty useless,” Anathema agrees. 

* * *

Aziraphale starts to worry as he wends his way through the mess of catwalks and corridors that make up the upper levels of the Ark. The bridge is silent when he returns, and Crowley barely acknowledges his arrival when he slides back in the passenger door.

“Crowley, you’re bleeding.” Aziraphale reaches across the front seat and tilts Crowley’s head to see. There is a trickle of blood oozing from his nose.

“I’m fine angel, stop fussing.” Crowley shakes him off, but instead of miracling the nosebleed dry, he reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a black embroidered handkerchief. 

“I know you are doing your best, but I’m worried about you. Yesterday you barely said three words to me all day, and none of them made any sense at all.” 

Crowley glares at him.

“Angel, I’m tired. I’m sorry I’m not a scintillating conversationalist right now, but believe it or not I have other things on my mind. If you’re getting bored, go and bother the witch again.” Crowley snaps at him, and Aziraphale tries not to let himself physically react. But his temper boils over just the same. 

“I’m not bored Crowley! How could I be bored when I have to watch you like a hawk to make sure you don’t accidentally lose the plot and kill everyone aboard!” he shouts.

Crowley recoils as though struck. He doesn’t speak for several minutes, just sits still, eyes fixed in the middle distance. Aziraphale can’t stop the angry heaving of his own breathing. 

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“You’ve got that bloody right!”

“I know you’re doing your best, and you’re taking an enormous strain because of it. Easing your burden is my responsibility, and I feel like I’m just making it worse. But dearest, if you black out, or worse, get distracted and forget what you’re meant to be doing, well... I don’t know what might happen.”

“So what do you suggest? I can’t very well take a nap. I wish I could go back in time and redesign the ship so you or Adam could pilot it safely. And no offence but you’d probably blow the circuits in ten seconds, and I’m not risking you or this ship on a possibility.”

“Are there any other non-essential systems I can take over? We’re having to manage without the translator now, and surely if we switch off the internal gravity in nonessential areas that would reduce the strain. Or I could try to balance the gravity in the ship.”

“Adam has isolated the life support systems now, so they should maintain themselves without me, but gravity is tied in to the propulsion system.”

“Is there anything else we could try?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you could get everyone to sing kumbaya and pray for us to get there.” Crowley shrugs his shoulders.

“Well, it can’t hurt,” Aziraphale says more agreeably than Crowley’s tone warrants, in deference to his own earlier outburst. He hates to leave Crowley alone, but he does want to check everything is still well outside the confines of the bridge. 

Adam needs to be warned about any other possible systems that could be affected by Crowley’s strange lapses, and Aziraphale is not looking forward to that particular chat. There is also the other matter of Adam’s lapses of his own, which leave Aziraphale feeling like an overbearing parent. 

* * *

Aziraphale seeks Adam out some time later, when he has mulled it over and arrived at what he hopes is an appropriately stern lecture. Adam’s uncharacteristic overreaction earlier that day has also left Aziraphale perplexed, and he can’t shake the feeling that something else is bothering the young antichrist. 

He finds Adam in one of the upper levels, sitting on the floor and looking down on an assembled group of humans playing basketball. The ship’s less-than-perfect replication of Earth’s gravity makes for some impressive slam dunks. A notepad sits open beside him, covered in doodles of asteroids and spaceships.

“What happens when they die?” Adam asks, before Aziraphale can manage his prepared opening gambit, and it stalls him for a moment. Adam swings his legs over the edge of the platform, and rests his arms on the safety chain, expression turning maudlin when Aziraphale prevaricates.

Aziraphale sits down beside him, knees protesting and clicking until he’s seated with his own legs dangling over the edge too. While the question is a surprise, it’s not something Aziraphale hasn’t wondered himself.

“At the moment? Nothing.” 

“I know AJ always made Heaven out to sound really boring, but it wouldn’t be considered a reward for being a good person if it really was terrible.” 

“Heaven is different for angels than it is for human souls. I can’t imagine that the staff of a luxury hotel have the same experience as the guests,” Aziraphale says.

“Well, that makes me feel worse.” 

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just, Pepper, Brian and Wensley are human. They’re not going to live forever like you and AJ or even me. When they die, they’ll just disappear... and it will be my fault.” Adam slumps over even more, and watery blue eyes threaten to well over any minute.

“Adam, you can’t take responsibility for what happened on Earth. The angels and demons were always going to destroy Earth. You’ve done everything you can to save humanity.” 

“I just can’t help thinking that if they’d never met me, like if AJ hadn’t given me to the nuns in the first place, then maybe they would be in Heaven now. I took that chance away from them.” 

Aziraphale can’t help thinking of another young boy whose life was irreparably changed by the whole sorry affair. Warlock wasn’t exactly on an upward trajectory last time Aziraphale had seen him.

“I know it might be hard to accept, but they’re here because they chose to fight. While I agree that they are all worthy of an afterlife of peace, in the end they chose the mission. They didn’t choose Her. They chose you.”

“When I first got my powers, I was not very good at controlling them.” 

Aziraphale gives him a “you don’t say” expression.

“Ok, so I was worse at controlling them than I am now.” Adam gives him an exasperated glare. “Anyway, when I started acting weird, my friends tried to leave me. I forced them to stay, and I scared them. Even now, I still feel like they look at me like they’re waiting for me to snap again.”

“I think you’ve proven that you only have their best interests at heart,” Aziraphale reassures him.

“I wish I could believe that. I can’t help but feel like maybe the only reason they’re here is because I wanted them to be.” Adam doesn’t meet his gaze.

“They’re your friends, and they’re brave and strong in their own rights. I doubt any of them would not hesitate to speak their minds if they disagreed with you; young Pepper especially.”

“I suppose you’re right. I just worry that I’ve taken something away from them that I shouldn’t have.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale says, finally understanding. “What I did today with that woman bothered you.”

“I just think we have all these powers, but it doesn’t give us the right to use them on people. We can hurt them even if we think we’re helping.” 

“I suppose you’re right. As an angel, free will was not something we were allowed to have: everything had to be done in accordance with the Great Plan. So as long as you were following the plan, everything was fine.”

“You didn’t get to decide anything for yourself?”

“No, not really. But then I met Crowley, and he spent six thousand years encouraging me to think for myself. I put him through a lot, but he never stopped trying to help me.” 

“He believed in you, even when you didn’t believe in yourself.” 

“Yes, I suppose he did. And Adam, someday someone will have that same faith in you, and not because of your powers, but because of the person you are.”

“Sure, if we don’t all die in a horrible explosion first,” Adam says, and Aziraphale resists the urge to chide him for being so young yet so cynical. 

“Indeed,” he agrees. “But think no more on it. No doubt Death will find us even out here, so I’ll be sure to ask him what he plans to do with the souls aboard when the time comes. Maybe he can still deliver the worthy souls back to Heaven.”

“I hope so,” Adam says, and gives Aziraphale a brittle but hopeful smile.

* * *

When Aziraphale returns to the bridge an hour later, Crowley greets him with a dazed smile.

“Did you think anymore on what we discussed?” Aziraphale asks him.

“I did, angel. I really don’t think Hamlet is worth the trouble. It’s just so dreary.” Crowley slumps back in his seat with a dramatic groan. Aziraphale laughs for a second, assuming Crowley is joking, but when Crowley makes no further comment, a wash of cold alarm hits him.

“Crowley, I was asking about the ship.” 

“Right. Yes, the ship. Of course.” He frowns, and scrubs a hand through his hair roughly, as though trying to pull the thoughts out of his head where they seem stubbornly stuck. 

“Dearest, you’re on the new Ark., You’re flying the ship, and we have ten thousand human souls on board. You’re keeping them safe while we travel to a new world,” Aziraphale reminds him gently. He’s seen Crowley like this before, when he’s woken from a nap too soon, or has gotten a few bottles ahead of Aziraphale on a good night out. Still, Aziraphale feels a lingering sense of mounting dread.

Realisation dawns, and Crowley’s face falls. “Oh, oh no Aziraphale. I’m sorry about the bookshop.”

“Not to worry dear. I have everything I need right here. You just keep the old girl flying and I’ll do the rest.” He pats the dashboard encouragingly.

“Ok angel, I think I remember where we’re going.”

“That’s right. We’re going to visit somewhere very special to you. A place you love.” 

Aziraphale tries not to look too closely at the still befuddled expression on Crowley’s face. He tells himself that the demon sitting beside him is fine, and uses his own powers to bless the humans on board. He risks a brief miracle for Crowley too, but keeps his divine magic away from anything else demonic. 

Crowley’s eyes clear after that, and he finally gives Aziraphale a lucid grin. 

* * *

Aziraphale isn’t there, Crowley discovers when he trails off mid conversation to find he’s been talking to an empty space. The angel had mentioned something about raiding the hydroponics bay, but Crowley had only been half paying attention. The Bentley has been rather loud and demanding of late, and he’s finding it harder and harder to focus on anything other than the needs of the ship. 

Which is why he doesn’t immediately leap out the window when a new voice speaks. 

“Hello Crowley.”

Crowley starts muttering about rude cars and their rude attitudes until the irrepressible divinity finally filters through the fog. He looks left, and does an alarmed double take. 

“You! You have some nerve showing up here. What do you want?”

“What, I can’t just drop in and visit an old friend once in a while?” 

Crowley gapes at her.

“I haven’t seen or heard from you in seven thousand years. As far as I’m concerned, you’re dead.”

“I know it’s been a while.”

“I’m sorry, no. We are not doing this. Get out of my car.”

“Crowley,”

“No, no, no. You don’t get to talk. The whole planet was destroyed, billions of people died.”

“Except the ones on this ship.” She smiles enigmatically at him. 

“And what, this was the ineffable plan was it? I’ll be honest, it’s a pretty shit plan.” Crowley drums his fingers on the wheel and does his best to ignore the being in the passenger seat.

“It wasn’t the plan, no. But I like this one better.” 

“You like this… oh, you like watching us all scrambling like rats from a sinking ship? Silly demon and the silly humans trying to outrun total obliviation. What a laugh.”

“Crowley, please do shut up.” There is enough of a divine command in her voice that he snaps his mouth shut.

“Mph” he says, in irritation.

“I just came to tell you that I liked your idea so much, I’m going to do you a favour.” At his glare, she relents, “You may speak.”

“A favour? What kind of favour?” He regards her with suspicion, and she can’t really fault him for it.

“The nature of it is your choice, and you don’t have to decide right away. Call it a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“Didn’t think Monopoly was your game.” 

“You’re right, poker is more my speed. And I admire your ability to bluff your way out of just about anywhere. But the stakes have never been higher—you’ll need a little more than luck this time.”

“Aziraphale will be sorry he missed you,” Crowley says, when a witty rejoinder doesn’t come to mind. 

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be happier not seeing me. I think he’s still worried about the whole flaming sword thing. I noticed he’s finally keeping it somewhere safe.” She rummages in the back seat for a moment, unearthing the sword from beneath a half-eaten box of chocolates and a dusty old tartan blanket. 

“I’ll just leave it on the seat so he knows there’s no harm done.”

She vanishes after that, and Crowley is left alone and confused. He banishes the sword back to the back seat footwell, and elects not to mention it when Aziraphale bustles back in moments later. 

So he’s been seeing things... big deal. No reason why She would be anything more than a figment of his imagination. It’s nothing more than desperate wish-fulfillment on his part. 

Aziraphale doesn’t need another reason to worry about him, so he keeps schtum. 

* * *

Anathema swings herself around as the divining rods in her hands drag her in completely the opposite direction. The other passengers have given her a wide berth, looking mildly perplexed but otherwise unconcerned about it. They seem to have finally accepted that strange things are par for the course. 

She’s accounted for Adam’s interference, and for Crowley and Aziraphale too, but there is something odd about the ship that she can’t put her finger on. Her journal lies open on the deck with scribbled diagrams and speculation in the margins, and at the bottom of the page is an enormous flowery question mark and the letters WTF underlined. 

Adam had been more than happy to give her the blueprints for the ship, but there are some obvious differences that seem to have been made during construction that aren’t anywhere on the design. She takes some more measurements and writes them down, before heading back to see Newt. 

He’s playing chess with Shadwell when she arrives, and the old witchfinder harrumphs at her for disturbing their game. She sends him away with a bag of freshly baked candies which mollifies him enough not to call her any of the usual insults. 

“I need your engineering help,” Anathema says, dropping her journal and the dozens of sheafs of grid paper with the ship’s specifications. 

“As long as I don’t have to go outside again,” Newt hunches in on himself, moving back until he’s further away from the door. 

“No, nothing like that I promise. I just need to know what you think. I’ve been picking up some strange readings and there are some differences between what I’m seeing and what is on the plans.” She points to a bulkhead that is twenty feet to the left of where is should be according to the design. 

“Have you asked Adam about it?”

“He said he had no idea.” 

“Well, I’ll do my best to figure it out then. But I wouldn’t worry too much, I’m sure Crowley had a good reason for doing it. Probably just some extra redundant systems in case life support cracks it or something.”

“I know, but if I’ve learned anything from Agnes, it’s that it pays to do your research.” 

“This doesn’t have anything to do with your dreams does it?” Newt’s expression is worried. 

“I just can’t shake the feeling that there is something I’m missing. Agnes always had all the answers if you knew where to look. My prophecies on the other hand,” she holds up a badly drawn picture of a snake and a duck.

“I’m sure one day, you’re going to know what that means,” Newt gives her a reassuring smile. 

“I hope so, for everyone’s sake.”


	9. Chapter 9

Crowley is tired. Bone tired. Knackered. Shagged out after a long squawk. 

Aziraphale is snoring beside him, able to get some rest while the rest of the ship sleeps—but Crowley’s task is not one that will forgive a bit of snoozing on the job. He’s been awake for five years give or take a few days, and while that used to be a sinch in the good old days, he’d gotten used to being able to drop off at 11pm each night.

With nothing but the dark night stretching before him and the Bentley’s soporific engine humming along, he feels cocooned in the front seat. There’s a sick, swimming quality to the dashboard when he tries to focus on the speedometer, and the numbers are just light-smears on his retinas. Not that the speedometer is in anyway accurate.

It would be so easy to just let his eyes slip closed, and drift off. There’s no oncoming trucks or witches on bicycles, but the ship is hardly a set-and-forget system. Eventually something will break and bleat at him.

His usual method of cranking up the stereo and singing loudly won’t fly. Aziraphale is cranky enough having to deal with all the general misery of ten thousand stir-crazy humans. Crowley is the only one who usually gets a free pass on account of his noble sacrifice, but Aziraphale will be snippy even to him if he wakes up now. 

So Crowley drives on, keeping the propulsion moving forward. Accelerating at a pace the humans on board can tolerate without expiring and being ready to dodge any space-junk and asteroids that get in their way. 

They’ve finally left the solar system when the problem materialises. Planet Nine was only recently discovered by humans, but it’s mass is enough to disrupt the gravity in the area for several lightyears. Where there is gravity, there’s space-junk. As far as Crowley can see, the field of asteroids and comet-trails and dust folds out in front of them in every direction. Can’t go over it. Can’t get under it. Will have to go through it. 

A small satellite might have made it through, but the Ark is larger than most small moons now that it’s expanded to its full size—the broad side of a giant rocket-propelled barn. 

Coming to a full stop isn’t an option at this speed, and there is no way the ship is maneuverable enough to avoid hitting everything. 

Crowley weighs his options, but none of them are particularly good. 

“Angel. Wake up.” He prods the sleeping body beside him. Aziraphale snuffles in a manner that Crowley will in no way describe as adorable, and opens bleary eyes in Crowley’s direction.

“Is it morning already?” he pouts.

“No. We’ve got a problem.” Crowley gestures out the front window. 

“Who the hell came up with that?” Aziraphale glares at Crowley as if every astronomical inconvenience is his personal doing. Crowley didn’t do any work this close to Earth though, so the presence of a massive asteroid field is as much of a surprise to him as it is to the angel. 

“Angel, I’m going to need your help to clear a path.” Crowley scans the field of rocks as it creeps closer. Slowing down to a maneuverable speed could add years to the journey, but they can’t afford to run into anything big. 

“You want me to go out there?” Aziraphale looks faintly terrified, face ashen in the dull light of the bridge. 

“I don’t see any way around it, do you?” Crowley gestures expansively, and a bead of sweat has formed at his temple as the strain of deceleration wears on him. 

“I suppose not. Do you have some sort of plan?” Aziraphale asks.

“Make it to the other side and don’t get blown up.” 

“Right.”

Crowley snags his sleeve, and stares at him with snake eyes that are all pupil. 

“Aziraphale, there won’t be any room for error. If something big hits us it will slice the ship to pieces and all the power in the world won’t save it. It will be over.” 

“I know dear, I’ll be careful.” Aziraphale gives him a smile that he doesn’t believe for a second, but they haven’t got the time to waste on more empty reassurances. 

Crowley slows the ship as quickly as he dares, but the speed reduction is enough to send everything on the ship not battened down into a sudden slide against the forward walls. Adam drags himself onto the bridge moments later, out of breath and nursing a scrape to his forehead.

“Some warning might have been nice AJ!” He flings open the passenger door where Aziraphale usually sits and bends down to scowl at Crowley. He ignores the huff he gets for nearly leaking blood on the Bentley’s upholstery. 

“No time, asteroids.” Crowley doesn’t spare him another glance, and instead stares out after Aziraphale, who is little more than a white speck on a curtain of black, disappearing into the writhing grey rocks crashing into each other. 

“Shit,” Adam says, and presses the horn on the dashboard. It sends a loud foghorn sound across the entire ship, and Adam follows it with a wish of his own that everyone will strap themselves in safely. He buckles himself into the front of the Bentley as well.

“Seatbelt, AJ,” he says, and doesn’t give the demon the chance to disagree. Fortunately when it comes to protecting Crowley, the Bentley is remarkably easy to convince. She belts him in with a racing harness that erupts from the seatback. 

They enter the field a lot faster than Crowley wants to, but he has no choice. Putting the humans past 200 Gs will surely kill most of them, and he doesn’t want to arrive at the destination with a ship full of human soup. 

* * *

Aziraphale flits ahead, hurling the asteroids out of their path as far ahead as he can manage with the ship bearing down on him from behind. The larger ones are easy enough to deflect off to one side or another, but the smaller ones are harder to see. The Ark is a few hundred meters across, which doesn’t seem like much in the vast expanse of space, but in the asteroid field, it feels massive. 

After what feels like hours, the density starts to thin out, and Aziraphale can see clear black space beyond. He chances a look back at the Ark, to see the ship barrelling through the field unimpeded. It’s only for a moment, but his inattention is enough for a rock no larger than a football to smash into the back of his head. 

Aziraphale veers wildly off his original trajectory and loses consciousness.

* * *

Crowley sees him take the hit, and disappear behind an asteroid the size of a jumbo jet. He swears and wrenches on the steering wheel. 

“Hang on, this is going to get messy!” Crowley sits a little more on the brakes, and the asteroid scrapes down the aft side in a shower of plating and dust. Although already exhausted, Crowley does his best to conjure a protection for the passengers so their bodies can survive the deceleration. 

The whole ship shudders under the impact, and even though it’s a glancing blow, a compartment has vented. 

“Adam, get down there now!” Crowley forcibly ejects Adam from the car, and he hits the deck running. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Crowley shouts into the sudden blare of alarms.

The space ahead is clear, and Crowley finally brings the ship to a stop, ignoring the cascading headache that hits him when he unclenches his fingers from the steering wheel. He just hopes that the humans are still all alive.

He wrenches himself out of the driver’s seat—the Bentley only just saves him from hanging himself with the seatbelt—and opens the door at the front of the bridge before leaping into space.

Crowley’s wings erupt the moment he hits the vacuum, and send him shooting towards Aziraphale’s last known location. 

Sound doesn’t travel in space, but he screams himself hoarse for Aziraphale anyway. 

* * *

Adam skids to a halt in the hallway leading to the lower decks. They are mostly living quarters, and he has to hustle his way through a crowd of people poking their heads out of their rooms to see what all the fuss was about. Several people are injured and bleeding, while others just look a bit seasick. 

He reaches the middle of the hall, and a row of doors are all jammed shut and locked. The first room won’t budge and when he calls out through the intercom, no one replies. Further down the hall, the rooms do open when he sternly asks them to, and the smaller fissures in the hull repair themselves at his instruction. 

He pulls a few confused people from the rooms that will open, some of them are light headed and woozy from their rooms suddenly depressurising, but most are unharmed. 

Towards the end of the hall, he finds Natalie sitting on the floor crying, holding two small children. 

“They’re stuck, Adam. Please, you have to help them!” She points to the door behind her that’s jammed shut and every panel on the door is glowing red. “Artie and Dave went in there to pull the kids out, but the whole side wall just gave way. I didn’t see what happened to them after that, and I couldn’t get the door open. 

Adam helps her to her feet and hands her off to Anathema who guides her up the hallway towards the middle of the ship.

“Can I get everyone to step back inside their rooms please, I need this corridor cleared. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come out.”

The assembled crowd shuffles back, and once the hallway clears, Adam locks down the end of the compartment. The door lights go green and he steps inside. 

The emergency magical force-field is holding on the back wall, which is just a big gaping hole into space. Adam finds the two men slumped down on the floor next to the force-field wall. The compartment has repressurized, but it’s too late. 

Adam fixes the damaged wall with careful attention, making sure not a single crack or fissure remains. Eventually, the force-field drops, and the wall looks as perfect as the day they took off. He finds a blanket to put over the bodies, and magics them and himself into the infirmary.

“Hey doc,” Adam greets Brian with a broken smile. Brian startles when he spots the two bodies on the medbay beds.

“Where’s Aziraphale? Can he revive them?” Brian starts his protocols anyway. The medbay beds show no signs of life in either patient, and the info screens are both flatlined.

“He’s not available at the moment.”

“But surely it’s an emergency! We can’t afford to lose people!”

“I wish there was something I could do, but I’m sorry. They’re gone!” Adam eyes the two spirits in the corner who are poking their bodies curiously. Brian stops what he’s doing, taken aback by the loud demonic reverberation in Adam’s voice.

“Right, well. Do you want an autopsy or something?” Brian asks. He has made peace with his apparent superfluousness with a real angel aboard, but is keen to actually use his skills at some point. 

“I don’t need to know why they died, that’s easy. It was my fault.” 

“What do you mean, your fault!?” Brian snags him by the arm as he moves to leave. 

“You know why,” Adam pulls a folded page from his pocket and slaps it onto Brian’s chest. It’s a piece of notepaper with a picture of a spaceship in a field of asteroids. Adam turns away, before Brian’s inevitable disappointment and fear can show on his face.

“You need to tell Aziraphale,” Brian says, voice serious. 

“That can’t happen right now.” Adam pushes past him without further explanation, and leaves Brian alone with the dead. 

He releases the locked compartments with a careless thought, but doesn’t go back down to the lower deck. He can’t face the people now.

* * *

Crowley’s snake senses do not work at all in a vacuum. He can’t feel the vibrations, can’t sense heat, and has to concentrate too hard on making his own body function to get anywhere in his search for Aziraphale. 

He tries to track the trajectory that the angel was on before he disappeared, but Crowley had been too preoccupied with not getting hit by the giant asteroid to see much of anything. 

Eventually though, the rocks shift in his line of vision, and something gold glints at him. 

He flies in that direction, dodging and weaving around the icy boulders until he finds one with a large crevasse in the side. Aziraphale lies at the bottom of it, having been somehow caught and wedged in a fissure in the side. 

Crowley pulls him free as delicately as he can, extracting Aziraphale’s left wing from where it has been jammed under the angel’s back. There is only a small amount of blood in the feathers—the rest having boiled away in the vacuum—but Aziraphale’s face is white as a sheet. 

Crowley starts to struggle to maintain the atmosphere he’s conjured around his corporeal body, but he extends the meager protection around Aziraphale and flies them back to the ship as fast as his wings will carry them.

* * *

Aziraphale is cold, and so still.

His wings droop and drag on the deck as Crowley carries him back to the bridge of the ship, stumbles them over to the couch beside the Bentley, and lays him down gently.

The wound at the back of the angel’s head has stopped bleeding, and his hair is matted with clotted blood and asteroid dust. Aziraphale’s face is ashen, devoid of any sign of life, and Crowley feels the panic dragging him like a sinking stone under the surface of a frozen lake. 

They’ve both been discorporated before. It shouldn’t be anything to worry about—but there is no sign of Aziraphale’s disembodied spirit. Which means he hasn’t died. At least, that’s what Crowley tells himself, over and over in desperation.

A prayer comes to his lips, involuntary and agonised. _Please, let him live. Just let him live._

“Crowley, he’s not breathing.” Anathema is there, and she is crying. Crowley can’t look at her. They are angels, and shouldn’t need to breathe, should they? Crowley holds his own breath to test the theory. Black spots dance on his eyes before even a full minute has passed. 

“I can’t fix him this time,” Adam says as he returns to the bridge, and looks at Crowley with guilt in his eyes. They’re all running on fumes at this point, and not even Crowley is sure why Aziraphale is still unconscious. He searches and searches but the angel’s familiar energy is dormant—a blank space where a bright spark should be.

Crowley starts screaming, and doesn’t stop until they all _leave, get out, go away_. 

He bargains, he begs and he demands. He’s not sure She’s listening or even cares. But She promised him one thing—one favour—and he’s calling in the debt. 

There’s a problem, he knows. She’s never given him so much as a sign before. No image of the Virgin Mary in his burnt toast, no response to his cries no matter how loud. Maybe She was never here and She never made a promise. Maybe She gave up on him a long time ago. 

Still. Aziraphale is so still. The ship is still. They’re all dead in the water. 

* * *

The angel looks peaceful, but Adam can see the raging and roiling of his aura as it fights to stay attached. Crowley’s own aura is bleak, but there is that one bit of hope still stretching outwards. The demon doesn’t stir when Adam drapes a blanket over hunched shoulders, and the cup of tea remains untouched on the windowsill. Crowley slumps into a fitful sleep, fingers clenched in a white-knuckle grip in the wrinkled fabric of the angel’s coat. 

Outside, everyone has done their best to set the ship back to rights after the sudden stop and the loss of their friends, but there is a dark mood permeating every corner. Adam hasn’t visited the medical bay, but he has heard from Anathema that Brian has had to relocate now that the place is permanently haunted. 

People are falling ill and suffering, and Adam can feel his own powers wilting under the pressure of an entire ship’s worth of expectations. When the demon is awake, he hears Crowley praying quietly, so he joins in with a few of his own. 

_Keep them safe. Let him wake up. Fix what I’ve broken._

He’s not sure his grandmother has ever listened to him—but for humanity’s sake, and for Crowley’s sake—he hopes she might make an exception.

* * *

In the main medical bay, Brian and the spirits have reached an impasse. Every time he makes a move to inspect or relocate their corpses, they rush forward in a gust of spectral alarm that makes him feel cold all over. It’s creepy, and he doesn’t like it. 

He tries talking to them, encouraging them to let go of their mortal lives, but the spirit of Dave just gives him a flat unimpressed look, and Artie’s spirit just gets stressed and emits a horrible wailing noise. 

It’s been a week since he’s seen Adam. The Antichrist has been cloistered away in the bridge of the ship for unknown reasons that Brian has been trying not to worry or speculate about. He has kept what Adam told him to himself for now, but he’s resolved to tell Aziraphale himself if Adam won’t. That’s if the angel deigns to show up again.

People keep coming by and asking for the Aziraphale to heal their injuries, and he has to make up excuse after excuse. There are burns to treat and broken bones from the accident, and he’s had to ply his patients with ibuprofen and lies, and send them on their way. 

Into the second week of no news, he starts to talk to Artie and Dave again. They seem at least able to keep a confidence, and don’t interrupt with their own well-meaning but ultimately unhelpful commentary the way Pepper or Wensely do. But it gives him a lot of time to think—not only about himself but also about Adam and their predicament. 

The intervening years have a way of dulling even the most stark memories. Brian’s recollection of that day at the airbase when Adam first stopped the devil himself has been muddied by the intervening years and the ongoing drone of reality. He remembers the earth shaking, and the unbearable heat followed by freezing cold drizzle of a miserable rainy day. But as for what actually happened, most of it is a blur. 

As a teenager, desperate to be accepted and always trying to maintain his status in the eyes of his peers, he’d overlooked plenty of warning signs. Adam’s determined insistence that one day the world would end again, for real, didn’t seem like the sort of thing he should question. But little by little, as he got older (and hopefully wiser), he began to realise that Adam, for all his brilliant imagination, is not the most functional adult. There has always been a directionless quality to the path in life he’s chosen, that the rest of the Them haven’t always been able to follow.

There was a time when Brian would have done anything Adam asked. He was always ready to agree to any of Adam’s crazy ideas, even if it would more than likely land him in hot water—usually with his parents, or with the local neighbourhood watch and on one memorable occasion, with Father Francis, the local pastor. But part of growing up is realising that it’s all well and good to follow someone on their way up, but there’s little sense in following someone off a cliff.

He’s cautioned Adam against his obsession with the end of things on more than one occasion, wanting his friend to have a normal life, without the weight of ridiculous prophetic expectations. Adam is still his best mate, and despite the Antichrist powers and the odd flare of demonic energy, he’s been a flawed but worthwhile presence in Brian’s life, along with the rest of the Them. 

Brian has had reservations in the past though, particularly about Crowley’s influence. Adam is always worse when they’ve been spending time together. More manic, and more prone to yo-yo-ing from the highest highs to the lowest lows, and more likely to disappear on some wild tangent. It usually leads Brian to find him several days later, unwashed and unkempt in front of the computer, a thousand threads deep into some doomsday cult’s message board. 

Brian did always want to be a doctor, though. The fact that it dovetailed with Adam’s elaborate apocalypse averting plans was a coincidence, unlike the other two members of their quartet. Wensleydale had wanted to study finance, but it took little more than a suggestion from Adam for him to rethink that and study agriculture instead. And while he always saw Pepper in some kind of rules-based job, she took Adam’s endorsement of her career very seriously.

Like it or not, Adam has set them on this adventure and he just hopes that one day it will be worth it. However, it’s that very tendency of Adam’s to disappear down some wild rabbit hole that worries Brian the most. Adam’s powers are not the sort of thing that are safe to wing on the day, and if he’s imagining asteroids into existence then that’s terrifying. He knows Adam won’t hurt them intentionally, but accidentally is not out of the question. 

It’s been hard, with so many people to care for and so much trauma being crammed into their flying menagerie. Aziraphale could always be relied on to heal the sick when the hurt was an obvious physical malady, but the true depth of the mental damage the end of days has done is an unfathomable, unquantifiable measure. Families have been separated, loved ones lost and dreams gone forever. The novelty of adventure has worn off, leaving behind brittle shells. They are one giant jet-propelled wound, and it’s been reopened anew with the loss of their friends.

He has to keep the main medbay locked, and instead conducts his practice out of the smaller sickbay on the second deck. The spirits make people uneasy, and he can’t do his job with them hovering. Natalie visits them every few days, but the experience is draining and distressing for her. The friends she’s known and loved for years are trapped in a cruel non-existence, and she finds little comfort in seeing them. 

Brian thinks about Pepper and Wensley, and wonders if this is what awaits them all. 

* * *

Although there is no-one keeping time with any degree of accuracy, Crowley thinks that it’s been about three weeks when Aziraphale wakes up

“Crowley, what’s going on?”

“Angel! Don’t move, just stay where you—“ Aziraphale shoots upright anyway, “—ah for Satan’s sake. You have a head injury, lie down would you.” 

“I feel fine,” Aziraphale argues, but lets Crowley push him back into a recumbent sprawl on the couch.

“You got your head dented by a rock, and then decided to hang around in space. Your corporation nearly boiled. I thought I’d lost you,” Crowley’s voice is edging towards hysterical— “Again!”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh!” Crowley rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s for a moment, and the two of them just breathe quietly together. 

“I should have been more careful, I suppose.” Aziraphale tries to keep his tone light, but Crowley just shudders against him. 

“I’ve come to realise that you have no bloody sense of self preservation. If you did, I wouldn’t end up nearly discorporating myself with worry every time you leave my sight.”

“I am sorry, dear. Truly.” 

“Just don’t do it again. This body can’t take the stress.” 

“What about the ship, did we make it past the asteroids?” Aziraphale tries to sit up again, and Crowley is too startled to stop him lurching over to the window to see.

“We did, mostly. Two humans, they uh… didn’t make it.” 

“Well, I guess that explains why I feel like I’ve just walked through a graveyard. The mood out there is terrible.” Aziraphale glances back at the door to the new human realm beyond. The people are all shuffling about, listless and depressed, and it feels like it will only get worse.

“I need to get the ship moving again. We’ve been sitting here for… well, weeks probably.” 

“Dearest, I don’t think you’re in any state to drive.” Aziraphale takes in the haggard-looking demon in front of him with concern. Crowley’s under-eyes are bruised and swollen, his hair is falling every which-way in damp clumps, and there is an alarming sway in his body when he shifts his balance. Aziraphale waves away what he can, but Crowley’s fatigue seems to be bone deep. 

“I’ll do it,” Adam says, and holds up both hands when Crowley begins to argue.

“Let the boy drive, Crowley. You can supervise,” Aziraphale tells him, and opens the passenger door for him. Adam looks nervous, but determined. 

Crowley sighs. “If we all die horribly in the first ten seconds, I’m going to haunt both of you.” 

“It will be fine, I promise. I’ll do exactly as you say.” 

“Where are you going?” Crowley’s voice is sharp with fear when he notices Aziraphale turning to leave the bridge. 

“You two have this well in hand,” Aziraphale says, smiling encouragingly at Crowley. “I need to put in an appearance with the humans. I’m sure they’re all quite unsure at the moment, and it won’t do to let them marinate any longer.”

“Fine, just… come back soon, okay?” Crowley sniffs back the prickling behind his eyes, and gets in the car. 

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale replies, choosing to let Crowley’s nose-diving dignity go unremarked upon. He bustles his way out of the bridge to head down to the kitchen—a stint of unconsciousness always makes him hungry. 

Once a week or thereabouts, Anathema makes French style crepes, and they have a standing appointment in the barnyard to collect eggs and milk. While he has no idea what day it is, perhaps she can be convinced it’s Crepe Day. 

* * *

Adam is quiet at the wheel, staring out the front window with determination and diligence that Crowley finds almost comforting, but he still watches the antichrist with an eagle eye. 6000 years of experience in managing your imagination keeping a tightly controlled lid on it is not something a new being can pick up overnight.

Despite the training Crowley had tried to impart during the construction of the Ark, Adam’s mind is still undisciplined, and flights of fancy in his dreams will have dire consequences this far from home or help. While Crowley is isolated from the ship at large, the Bentley still talks to him, and he knows when she’s noticed something amiss. Adam has had a few lapses, that much he has deduced from the Bentley’s shifting moods. As to the nature of them, he has his suspicions—but if Adam is hiding something, he’s hiding it well. 

Crowley has done his best to teach the techniques for compartmentalising and suppressing certain things, but he knows enough about himself to know he’s not always successful. At least, if it’s confined to impacting Aziraphale, then this endeavour won’t have been for naught. It wouldn’t do for them to arrive with a ship full of sinners, ready to create a bastardised version of the world, all poisoned by Crowley’s own nature leaking into the walls and the water. 

He knows there is goodness in him, but there is selfishness too. It might look from the outside like all of this is for the good of humanity, to preserve the almighty’s greatest creation. But if he’s honest, they’re just as flawed and just as dangerous as any of her other creations, angels and demons included. 

Aziraphale, though: Crowley can feel his goodness moving through the ship like a beacon. He replenishes waning hope, and soothes the despair, taking it all into himself like a sponge. Crowley knows Aziraphale doesn’t mean to take it out on him, but after thousands of days of the same misery, the ennui and the loss, it’s taking its toll on their relationship too. Aziraphale shields him, keeps him in a tower away from prying eyes and leaking negativity, but when that blackness pervades everything, it’s impossible to avoid. 

But his imagination holds true, for now. He keeps the picture in his mind, the goal—a dream so secret he hasn’t even shared it with the angel whose presence is the centerpiece. But if he believes hard enough, one day they’ll have it. The universe must bend to his will, if only because Aziraphale deserves a happily ever after. All the books he’s collected, all the stories the humans have handed down—the best of them end well. And Crowley, for all that he doesn’t trust anything or anyone (especially not God), still trusts that things will work out. 

Optimism isn’t a natural inclination for a demon, but it rears its head every time Aziraphale smiles at him with hope in his eyes. If Crowley has to borrow a bit of that hope on which to build his dreams, then at least he’ll have someone to share it with. They’ll never grow old, and they’ll never see a true end until the whole universe goes cold. But at least there might be an end to the pain and the fear. 

So Crowley has given it some thought. An embarrassing number of hours’ thought. Every being wants something, has a dream of what their perfect life would be like. With 6000 years to make it happen, Crowely should have had ample time to turn the dream into a reality. But when dreams are confined to your own head, they’re full of beautiful possibilities. A cozy life in a rural paradise, a shared roof over their heads and the freedom to just be together. No wiles, no temptations, no blessings and no miracles. Just an honest life, good wine and Aziraphale. 

But when you try to make manifest all those little selfish desires, or those massive and life-disrupting changes, pulling another person into that reality is an act of tyranny. How can he ever know that a dream is shared, when he can’t read minds? How can he know that any positive response is not just his own demonic wiles changing reality, greasing the way for his desires to be pasted over another’s? How can he know the truth when he can’t look at someone’s soul and see those self-same natural and true desires reflected back?. 

He’s already dragging the angel in his wake, swept along by Crowley’s misguided altruism. He’s almost afraid to ask what Aziraphale wants, now that they’re so far gone. 

So he can only guess about the nature and scope of what Aziraphale sees when he dreams of his own future, but Crowley is not so proud as to believe that they have ever in any way featured him. Aziraphale probably dreams of God: being patted on the head for all his do-gooding and being rewarded with an eternity of crepes. 

No, that’s not fair. Aziraphale’s desires are probably as wide and varied as his own, and not all tied up in the whole heaven-hell business to the exclusion of everything else. Surely he’s not so different.

Crowley’s wants are mostly benign, for a being of such great power with infernal terrors pumping around in his blood-stream all day long. After a thousand lifetimes in service of his masters, first God herself, then the legions of Hell, he’d rather like to just belong to himself.

His existence has always been about survival, flying under the radar, doing just enough to avoid scrutiny. He’s all for securing souls for the devil, beats the hell out of trying to keep the humans on the straight and narrow at any rate. But his best work has always been about giving people what they want. His own desires have been sublimated almost beyond recognition. 

But they still exist. Nebulous and unreachable, he’s yearned for peace that comes from knowing your place, and the comfort of certainty. After centuries on the knife-edge of discorporation, or worse, absolute obliteration, some certainty would go a long way to soothe his ragged nerves. 

The future is more unknowable now than it ever was, even for a being with his command of time and space. And then there is Aziraphale. A chaotic agent of disruption that has the power to rend him asunder with little more than a few words. He’s been holding back, holding himself in for centuries, because even after all this time—sharing drinks, sharing jokes and even sharing bodies—he wants to respect whatever boundaries the angel wants to impose. 

But to tell him the truth, to share the dream he has turned around so many times in his mind it’s been condensed into a sparkling crystal—well. That would not be advisable. And it certainly wouldn’t be advisable while they’re cooped up here on the ship, unable to get clear of each other for more than a few moments at a time. He’s not sure he could keep the ship flying if Aziraphale didn’t reciprocate. The memory of his many past rejections keep threatening to sour any new declarations he might make. 

But the depth of his feelings are like a dust storm, ready to sweep in and cover everything in their path with their grittiness. In his darker dreams, he had wanted to bind Aziraphale to him, to keep him for his own, and to break the shackles of Heaven and God and the rest. There isan element of joy to the idea of being able to say “Fuck you, he’s my angel now. You snooze you lose, suckers.”

In a way, he’s succeeded. Aziraphale has joined him on this misadventure despite all the sacrifices it required. But he’s made a prison for the two of them now, in a tin can hurtling through space. He’s exchanged his master for another, and drawn Aziraphale into bondage along with him. 

Adam’s voice startles him, and Crowley surfaces from his thoughts abruptly.

“I want to ask you something, but you have to promise not to be mad.” Adam’s voice is cautious, and Crowely can tell he’s trying very hard to sound nonchalant.

“As long as you keep your mind on the job, sure.” Crowley replies, drawing his arms into a protective cross and slumping down against the window. 

“How did you know if someone loves you? For real, I mean, and not just because you’ve been influencing them. Unconsciously I mean, not like intentionally or anything.” Adam makes a face like he’s eaten one of the less palatable MREs that he packed.

Crowley sighs. He wants to tell Adam not to worry, that he can’t make anyone love him if they don’t want to. But it’s not strictly true, and Crowley is painfully aware of the risks. Crowley is almost impressed that Adam would choose to notice this inconvenient aspect of their natures. Maintaining blissful ignorance would be easier.

“The power of influence is dangerous,” Crowley tells him honestly. “You tell yourself what you want doesn't matter, that you won't manipulate them not even subliminally. But you can't ever know you've been successful. Because if they want what you want, well. It's the chicken and the egg isn't it. Only, you're the only one who knows you've broken that trust. And there they are, happy, thinking they got everything they wanted. And you'll never believe it's real. Because, deep down you know how selfish you really are.”

Adam looks at him with dawning horror, and Crowley flushes, feeling unaccountably like the Antichrist has looked right through him and seen something not meant for outside eyes.

“That's pretty messed up. Does Aziraphale know that's how you feel?” Adam asks, and Crowley pushes his glasses more firmly on his face, ignoring the sudden stinging in the corner of his eyes.

“Well, we're different to your situation.”

“How's that?”

“Well, if I really think about it, at this point, I don't know which one of us started it.” Crowley mulls over the point for a few minutes. That would certainly absolve him of the worst of the responsibility, if he could blame their situation on some supernatural resonance effect. 

“You’re both pretty powerful, but Aziraphale is an angel right? He wouldn’t be able to influence in a bad way.” As if it’s ever been so black and white.

“The truth of it is Aziraphale is far better at temptation than I am,” Crowley says. Adam laughs, incredulous. “I know I’m supposed to do my best work in service of your old man, and at least it staves off boredom. But Aziraphale always made his marks believe it's what they wanted, and worse, that they were justified in wanting something, no matter how sinful.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same person? White hair, kind of stuffy...” Adam counters, shaking his head.

“To err is human, right? Well, Aziraphale is really good at blameless sin. He can lie to you honestly—tell you what you’re doing is actually right, that it’s just practical. Or he can lie dishonestly—those little white ones that you think are inconsequential but they start to add up, pathologically. But if you believe your own BS, well, then it's not even lying at all. It's rationalising.”

“Rationalising? Like how God justified destroying the whole planet so that Heaven could win?” Adam’s voice is bitter.

“Yeah, well management is often most rotten at the top. That's how an angel of the Lord can tempt you to any sin on the naughty list. By making you think it's perfectly reasonable.”

“So where does that leave you?”

“I don’t know. Too old for this bollocks, probably”. 

“Seriously?” Adam huffs at him in exasperation.

“Sorry it wasn’t much of a pep-talk.” Crowley waves a hand at the general air of awkwardness that has descended. 

“I’m almost sorry I asked.” Adam grins, and pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong. You’re just trying to keep it together for all of us, and you’re not bad for wanting something for yourself. I’m sure an angel as powerful as Aziraphale could put you in your place if he really needed to.”

“Well, you saw how he is with a sword. Don’t want to get on that one’s bad side.” Crowley smiles properly this time, and Adam gives him a put upon glare.

“You are so gone for him. It’s kind of unbelievable.”

Crowley glares back, but doesn’t bother to disagree. “Shut it and drive the car.” 

The silence is companionable, and Crowley finds himself powerless to quell the determined smile that tugs at his lips. To be able to talk with others about Aziraphale in such a context still feels daring or even dangerous. But Crowley is starting to realise that he’s always been woefully transparent anyway. It’s a miracle Aziraphale hadn’t noticed that very first day on the top of the eastern gate, if Adam’s gentle mocking is anything to go by.

Hours pass, and Crowley takes the opportunity to doze, but soon enough he’s being rudely dragged back into the waking world by an inconvenient reality.

* * *

Crowley knows his Bentley like he knows the back of his own hand, and she’s not happy. There is a suspicious sound coming from the engine that is just at the edge of hearing through the muting of the closed cabin. Adam is sweating again. Despite how little Crowley usually gets from him thanks to his inbuilt shielding from prying occult forces, the walls around Adam’s mind seem to be getting thinner and thinner. There is an overwhelming sense of guilt that seems to be leaking out into the cabin. 

Adam has managed admirably at getting the ship back on course, and they’ve been accelerating at a steady pace. But now that they’re a few hours into the flight, the Antichrist looks very much like he may faint. 

“You need to take over,” he says, turning to look at Crowley with eyes that are bloodshot around the edges of dilated pupils. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can do this anymore. I’m going to kill us all.”

Crowley waves him out of the way, and slides back into the driver’s seat as Adam falls out the door and flops in a graceless heap on the floor. The engine sound dissipates, but Crowley can’t tell over the sudden din of screaming systems all clamouring for his attention.

It’s overwhelming for a second, but Crowley just mutes the majority in the hopes that they’ll resolve once he’s been driving again for a few minutes. He lets out a frustrated breath, wishing not for the first time that he’d spent more time training Adam in the fine art of ignoring one’s own suffering and successfully pretending to be functional.

“I’ll be fine,” Crowley tells him, sliding the door shut with only a momentary consideration for Adam’s bent knees. “Go on, you’ve got somewhere you need to be.” Crowley yells through the glass of the window, and Adam grimaces, dragging himself to his feet. 

“I’ll send Aziraphale back as soon as possible,” Adam promises, and shuffles away from the car.

The Bentley calms like a startled horse that’s soothed with a few quiet reassurances and gentle handling. Crowley lets it subsume his thoughts, and soon the ship’s moaning and groaning settles in to a happier hum.

* * *

The ceremony takes place in the docking bay. It’s the only room that’s big enough for a group of people larger than ten, so it seems the logical choice. Aziraphale just hopes they don’t experience any gravity turbulence for the next hour or so. Adam finds him before the event begins, looking pale and drawn, more apologies spilling out. Aziraphale tries not to let his own concerns show, but the need to get back to the bridge dogs him as he greets the rest of the mourners.

Although it seems an odd choice, Shadwell, now well into his eighties, has actually brought his old bagpipes for the trip across the galaxy. As the first mournful notes start up, a hush falls over the crowd. It’s a small community on board, but seeing how many people have turned out to pay their respects pleases Aziraphale enormously. 

He still hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Death, though the humans in the rough-hewn wooden boxes at the centre of the room have most definitely expired. Their spirits are just sitting there, forlorn and confused. Aziraphale has had to ward around them so none of the living touch them: spirits left to wander too long tend to suck the life out of the living if left unsupervised. 

He’s tried to reach them, to console them, but they are too confused to respond. They certainly haven’t departed for Heaven as he’d hoped. They haven’t gone the other way either, which should be encouraging, but is really just troubling. 

Shadwell may be a tiresome human, but his bagpipe playing is quite adept, and if he closes his eyes Aziraphale can almost imagine he’s back in London, enjoying one of the parades or memorial marches. There isn’t a dry eye in the house by the time the song finishes, and Shadwell shuffles back into the gathered crowd. 

Aziraphale has never been one for public speaking, but the assembled humans all turn to him expectantly. His wings shiver and fluff up, an involuntary reaction to so much grief being directed his way. Although it’s perfectly reasonable to despair, Crowley will feel the effects if the mood plunges further.

Aziraphale clears his throat.

“I know this is a time of great sadness, and a time of great uncertainty. Many of you came on this journey with no beliefs, no religion to speak of. Your commitment to science and reason was unshakeable, and for that you have my respect. I have seen all of you adapt to the new knowledge, to reform your convictions on the evidence of what you can see. But I ask you all now to consider something you might not find comes naturally.” Aziraphale takes in the faces of the astronauts and scientists who stand like an honor guard in the front row. 

“I want you to have faith, not in God, but in yourselves. I want you to believe that we can do this, together. Our journey is long and our bodies are tired, and now our hearts are hurting from the loss of our friends. But if you can find within you that spark, that drive that has seen you make incredible scientific discoveries, that ingenuity that put humans on the moon. Find that within yourselves and nurture it. For it is the ability to triumph against overwhelming odds that makes humanity enduring. And we shall endure.” 

As he steps down, he spies a dark figure loitering on the far side of the room. The spirits appear to have noticed as well, and are straining against the wards. Fortunately Adam spots him too.

“Thank you Aziraphale, now, if you'd all like to join me in the commissary for some drinks and to reminisce about our dear friends. Follow me!” Adam hustles everyone from the room.

Unaware of the urgency, the people file out gradually, leaving Aziraphale alone with the spirits and the newcomer.

“Couldn’t keep them from snuffing it, could you,” Death says, laughing cruelly.

“They were very noble, and sacrificed themselves to save others. You could have the decency to not be so smug.” 

“Well, let them out then. I’ll dispose of them, seeing as I’ve come all this way.”

“Dispose of them? What do you mean?”

“They’ve got to go somewhere. Heaven isn’t interested in them, and Hell is closed. I’ll just have to throw them into the nearest black hole with the others.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort! These people deserve a proper rest!” 

“Have it your way,” Death says, and moves to leave without the souls who are watching him curiously from behind the containment field.

“You’ll take them to Heaven,” Aziraphale tells him. “You’ll take them there and ask to speak to Uriel. And if Uriel knows what’s good for them, they won’t ask questions. If they do, remind them that these souls are sons of Noah.”

“These two, descended from Noah?” Death laughs.

Although it takes a lot more effort than Aziraphale wants, the story becomes true. Dave and Artie are now proud descendants of Noah, whom Uriel is honour-bound to help.

“You’ll never manage that trick for all of them.” Death warns him, and blinks out of sight. Dave and Artie are gone too. 

* * *

Aziraphale wishes not for the first time, that they were back at the bookshop. He always gained some measure of comfort from meandering through the stacks, and it helped him to solve any number of problems in the past. He could walk through the halls of the ship, but even though Crowley’s very essence is the heartbeat on which the ship lives, Aziraphale finds himself unable to bear the thought of being so far away from him.

There is no simple answer to be found lurking under the leaves of the strawberry plants in hydroponics, and no golden egg solution has been laid by the chickens in the barn, and short of frisking Crowley for any hidden miracles, he’s at a loss. His last conversation with Lucifer has proven depressingly prophetic. The trip has been long, and hard, and Crowley would simply not have survived it alone. 

How on earth Aziraphale is supposed to sustain him now, when he looks on the edge of discorporation at any moment, is a terrifying quandary. He’s thought about attempting another body swap so that his body could pilot the ship for a while and give Crowley’s poor vessel a break, but Crowley is depleted at every level, metaphysical and not, and Aziraphale isn’t sure that the effort of switching wouldn’t do him in anyway. 

Crowely has been known to hibernate for decades at a time, and Aziraphale can’t help but wonder if all the excitement since the turn of the millenium hasn’t simply broken Crowley’s body-clock. Aziraphale had been quite looking forward to the warmer days in the shop, when the sun has changed direction enough to spill in the side windows. Crowley always seemed to be at his most effervescent on the evenings when he’d managed a good nap in Aziraphale’s office. 

Now, it’s like watching a groundhog who is not prepared to emerge for anything less than a holiday to the tropics. 

Crowley is still driving when he returns to the bridge, and Anathema is watching him carefully. Aziraphale joins her on the red couch, moving quietly so as not to distract Crowley until he’s figured out a plan. Disappointingly, no plan immediately springs to mind.

Anathema reaches over and gently unclenches his hand where it’s clawed around the edge of the seat. 

“I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I have to believe we’re going to be fine. I haven’t seen anything new or different since you were hurt." Anathema pauses, and Aziraphale can tell there is something she's not telling him. "There is nothing bad in our futures that I can see,” Anathema says in a rush to reassure him, but Aziraphale just gives her a flat look, unconvinced.

“No offense dear, but your powers are hardly reliable.” 

“I’ll let that slide just this once because you’ve had a pretty shitty few days. But I’ll remind you that you’re the one who believed in the mission enough to come with us.”

“The mission. Yes.” Aziraphale swallows a guilty denial. He believes in Crowley, in his brilliance and his determination, but the merits of the mission are still yet to be demonstrated as far as he’s concerned. 

“I have an idea,” Anathema says, ignoring Aziraphale’s less than rousing display of optimism. 

“If it requires us to do any chanting, or naked dancing, you can keep it to yourself,” he says, winding up for a full-on snit. Anathema just punches him in the arm, with some force.

“Don’t be an asshole and just listen, will you?” 

“Fine. What’s your idea?”

“We put Crowley into a dream state, so we can free up more of his mind to fly the ship.”

“A dream?” Aziraphale pauses and bites back the reflexive dismissal on his tongue. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It is, but I’ve seen it done. I once saw someone land an Airbus while they were under hypnosis. They’d never even been on an airplane before.” 

Keeping Crowley conscious and on task is almost impossible now: let alone if he’s asleep. Aziraphale wishes he could ask the demon for his opinion, but Crowley hasn’t even acknowledged their presence. 

Aziraphale’s powers are immense, but they don’t extend to mind reading unless the mind on the other end is receptive to his intrusion. The trust it requires is not something the average human will permit, let alone a demon. Hereditary enemies don’t share their weaknesses and vulnerabilities easily, and this is another level of intimacy that Aziraphale is reluctant to require of Crowley. He’s already given Aziraphale so much.

“I know you’re an angel, but Aziraphale, you’re a magician too. Surely you know how to hypnotise someone,” Anathema says.

“Usually I just compel people to do things. I’ve never actually tried doing it the human way.” 

“Well, unless you have a better idea?” 

“Fine, I’ll try. But don’t blame me if he starts clucking like a chicken.” Aziraphale huffs, unhitching his medal from his waistcoat and transforming it into a pocket watch. 

Crowley greets him with a blank stare when he opens the door to the Bentley. Eventually, like a downed computer coming back online, Crowley grins in recognition.

“Hey angel, long time no see,” Crowley says, sounding drunk. 

Aziraphale waits for him to focus, sliding an arm around his shoulders to shield him from at least some of the outside noise, and in the hush of the car Crowley’s breath speeds up and his pupils finally start to contract.

“Fuck. Aziraphale, I can’t. It’s too much,” Crowley begs him, voice high and desperate.

“I know, I’m sorry. I wish I could take this pain for you, but you’re the only one who can do this. We have an idea, but you’re going to have to let me guide you. Anathema thinks that if you’re asleep, it will be easier for you, but I’ll need to keep you under until we arrive. Will you do it?”

“We haven’t got a lot of options left, angel. If you think it will work, then I trust you.” Crowley’s face is an open mess of emotions, but hope is chief among them.

Aziraphale nods, face solemn, and breathes out in a shaky rush.

“I’ll be there with you, all the way.” Aziraphale lifts the pocket watch where Crowley can see it. “Just focus on the sound of my voice.” 

Crowley’s eyes flutter shut soon after, and Aziraphale lets himself be drawn into the dream. Crowley’s mind is welcoming, but the entirety of his personality hits like a brick, and Aziraphale has to hold on to keep his bearings as reality shifts around them. He fights his way to the surface of Crowley’s thoughts, and feels a gentle brush of an apology against his mind. Crowley relinquishes command of the dream, and Aziraphale steers them back to calmer waters. 

* * *

The Bentley’s headlights streak across the darkened countryside, catching on the glinting cats eyes and the puddles of water dotted across the bitumen. There is no moon or stars, just a blanket of cloudy nothingness. The rain has stopped, but the windscreen is covered in tiny droplets that slide edgewards in the buffeting wind. Crowley doesn’t need the lights to see, and there are no other cars to speak of, but the rays of light are comforting—they keep him from feeling swallowed up by the blackness outside. 

Inside the Bentley, the ambient light from the headlamps casts a muted glow over the interior. Aziraphale’s eyes are like their own source of luminosity when Crowley catches them out of the corner of his eye. The angel has been silent since the beginning of the journey, and Crowley can’t really remember how they came to be driving in the woods at this hour. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s forgotten to sober up and awoken to no memory of the previous evening’s festivities, but it must have been some bender to not even remember getting behind the wheel. 

He wants to ask Aziraphale, but he also doesn’t want to break the strange spell that’s fallen over the car. It’s pleasant and calm in the cabin, and every time he thinks he might remember, some strange wave hits him and he loses the whole train of thought. 

He felt the same way after taking enough LSD to kill an elephant by accident in 1967. But the Summer of Love has long been relegated to history, and Crowley gave up recreational drugs after spending a week on the floor of his flat watching the back of his own hand move. 

Although it’s dark, Crowley knows where they are. A few more bends and the top of a gentle rise and they’ll be heading towards the cottage. Crowley isn’t ready for Aziraphale to see it, though, and certainly not in the middle of the night. He drives them right past the rickety old gate and the crumbling stone wall that lines the driveway. The cottage is barely visible in the dark, just a shadowy formless blob hidden by the tangle of creeping vines and overgrown hedges. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice is gentle.

“Yes, angel?” Crowley lets his eyes skate past the letterbox with a deliberate casualness. 

“I’m so glad I decided to come with you,” he says, and Crowley snorts inelegantly. 

“Ok, fine. I admit it. I don’t know where we’re going. Are you happy?” Crowley feels the flush of cold sweat that creeps along the line of hair at the nape of his neck. If Aziraphale will just clue him in on why the fuck he thought an evening cruise through the countryside was a good idea, he could consider relaxing. 

The angel seems to be measuring every word he says, as though he’s looking for a hidden message or a broadcast on a different frequency. Crowley feels the self-consciousness start to prickle—he averts all eye-contact and reaches into the glove box for his sunglasses.

“Well, you suggested a drive out of town to see the stars.” Aziraphale smiles at him, but there is an underlying hint of concern that Crowley can’t really fault. He doesn’t feel drunk anymore, but if the angel is concerned about him driving under the influence, he’s being unusually subtle about it. Normally there would be yelling.

“Right, to the stars then! Hope you brought a picnic blanket.” Crowley diverts them onto a narrower country lane, and the stars obligingly start to peek out from behind the clouds. 

He hasn’t done anything so rash as to buy the cottage on the edge of Tadfield. To actually put pen to paper and sign the deed of ownership is a commitment he wonders if he’ll ever be ready for, even if Aziraphale—by some miracle—embraces the idea. But he’s kept an eye on the perfect place, and the cozy two-bedroom stone house on four acres has fallen into disrepair, having been abandoned by disinterested relatives of the deceased previous occupant. 

He can’t be sure he hasn’t been making drunken confessions though, and Aziraphale seems to be keeping something to himself, hidden behind the weight of loaded glances and deliberate sighs. Crowley has certainly rehearsed the various things he’s wanted to say to Aziraphale on and off for centuries, and a good wine is enough to loosen his tongue if he’s not careful—but outright asking the angel if he’s said anything pathetic is a terrifying prospect. 

Aziraphale starts rummaging around in the back seat while Crowley rummages around in his memories for some hint of what the last twenty four hours might have involved. 

“Fancy a G and T?” Aziraphale says, to the sound of bottles clinking. 

It takes Crowley a moment to parse the question, while Aziraphale looks at him expectantly. Plying himself with more alcohol seems like a bad idea, but there is a more pressing reason. 

“Angel, I’m driving!” Crowley exclaims, hands flying off the wheel to emphasise the point. 

Aziraphale just gives him a flat, unimpressed look. Crowley sighs. “As long as it's a real one, then.” Miracled ones have a lingering aftertaste of divinity, not unlike a martini that's been sullied by too much vermouth, and frankly Crowley doesn’t care for it. But a proper drink would go a long way to settle his still spiralling nerves. 

Aziraphale hands him a chilled glass filled with novelty ice-cubes, and doesn’t wither under Crowley’s appalled glare. He just clinks their glasses together and downs his drink in one mouthful, wiggling in his seat like he hasn’t got a care in the world. All that optimism and happiness should grate against Crowley’s sullen menace—but instead he finds it charming, Satan help him.

Crowley sips the cocktail obediently but not enthusiastically—the angel has somehow managed to destroy the most basic drink by making it weaker than kitten, and it doesn’t provide the helping hand he was hoping for. 

He has a feeling he’s already vomited his feelings at Aziraphale’s feet, but his memory just won’t cooperate. If the angel had turned him down, or worse, let him down gently, maybe he repressed it out of self-preservation. 

He’ll cling to the last shreds of his dignity a little while longer, and if Aziraphale is any kind of friend at all, he will pretend that everything is fine. 

His mind is still fuzzy, but the angel hasn’t left him alone in the middle of nowhere, so there is still hope for their friendship to be preserved. He bites his tongue to stop himself from spilling any closely guarded secrets, and turns his full attention back to the road. 

They were going somewhere important, he’s sure. 


	10. Chapter 10

It's a beautiful day for a drive, Aziraphale agrees, when Crowley nods at the passing countryside with a satisfied grin. They're in the vast stretch of green rolling hills that fill the space between towns, and Crowley is humming a familiar song under his breath as he guides the Bentley through the gentle turns. Aziraphale doesn't remark on the speed he chooses to drive anymore, and trusts Crowley and the car to get them where they're going in one piece. 

"C'mon angel! I know it offends your culinary sensibilities but I need a coffee." Crowley gestures to the golden arches, which have been unsubtly emblazoned on every road sign for the last twenty kilometers.

"Fine, I'll have an Apple Pie McFlurry and hotcakes." Aziraphale may be a food snob, but he doesn't have the heart to deny Crowley caffeine (even the magic kind). He will make do with corn syrup and cardboard if it makes the demon happy.

“Yesss!” Crowley yells triumphantly and swerves the Bentley through the drive-thru, plucking the waiting coffee and sweet treats from the server’s hands without stopping. 

Aziraphale has to catch the coffee before he ends up wearing it, but he still gets a glimpse of actual Ronald McDonald waving at them as they depart.

"Crowley dear, I think we need to talk about your subconscious," Aziraphale says, more to himself than to Crowley. 

“Whazzat angel?” Crowley asks around a gulp of coffee that should be too hot to drink.

"I said—feeling better, my dear?" Aziraphale abandons his previous trail of thought and speaks more carefully, not wanting to spoil the happy ambiance.

"You know me, tickety boo and all that," Crowley says, flashing bright yellow eyes at him over the rim of his sunglasses. He looks as well as he ever has and Aziraphale lets himself get taken in by the mischievous sparkle of Crowley's gaze for an indulgent moment. 

The next corner appears all of a sudden, and Crowley has to wrench the steering wheel to follow the parabola over an unexpected rise. The abrupt change in gravity makes their stomachs swoop, and Crowley grins like he meant to do it all along. Aziraphale’s McFlurry is an unwitting victim, and has to be hastily miracled off the leather seat. 

"Eyes on the road please. I really don't think we can afford any more accidents," Aziraphale softens his rebuke with a smile, and turns the radio up.

The song Crowley was humming swells into a full sound, and Freddie Mercury's voice tells them that the show must go on.

In the months since Aziraphale joined Crowley in the dream, they’ve driven along this road so many times that Aziraphale has lost count. All roads lead to the backwoods of Tadfield, and Crowley always takes them the same way. There’s nothing out there apart from some sheep in the fields and the odd little cottage. But he can’t fault Crowley for the choice of scenery. It’s beautiful.

Confident that Crowley is in control, Aziraphale lets himself rest properly, just for a little while. He dozes off, lulled by the soft hum of the engine and Crowley’s quiet voice, singing pitch-perfect as always.

He is awoken some time later by sleek black wings flapping in his face and Crowley howling with laughter.

Aziraphale manages to wrestle the duck under one arm where it finally calms.

"What? I couldn't leave her there in the middle of the road." Crowley smirks.

"Of course not dear. I'll just pop her back to that farm over there shall I?" He gestures to the quaint little barn that's appeared on the horizon.

"What if they were going to eat her? She's made a bid for freedom! Come on, have a heart Aziraphale!" Crowley pouts elaborately.

"Fine, I'll make sure it's an organic vegan farm."

Aziraphale does not, in fact, go to Crowley's imaginary duck paradise, and instead returns the bird to the barnyard animal wing of the ark. Wensleydale is also given another stern talking to about his concept of 'Free Range'.

He’s been practicing short absences, and for the most part Crowley seems to manage to carry on—as long as he has a rational reason for Aziraphale not being there. It’s a delicate maneuver, but Aziraphale feels safe enough to manifest in and out on occasion. When he returns to the dream, he tries to ignore the sad slump in Crowley’s shoulders. 

“Oh, come now Crowley, you know the Bentley is no home for a duck. You’d be complaining about the mess on the seats in no time,” Aziraphale says, trying to be reasonable in the face of demonic eyes that have grown inexplicably larger and more sad-looking in the ten minutes he was away.

“I know, I was just thinking is all. Might be nice to have some time in the country, you know. Get some chickens and ducks. Maybe a goose or two?” Crowley sighs, a sad little exhalation that seems too heavy for his body to hold in any longer. 

Aziraphale mulls the idea over in his head, and although the pain of his dearly departed bookshop is still fresh even after all this time, there is a strange appeal to the idea of leaving the city behind and living the quiet life. 

While it’s a moot point now—there are no more quaint villages, no tree-lined lanes and no fields of sheep—as dreams go, it’s very nice. 

Aziraphale looks out the window and considers the greenery with a more deliberate eye. They are coming up to the backwoods of Tadfield again, and Aziraphale has to admit he’s yet to tire of the view. 

“One day, Crowley. I think that would be lovely.” Aziraphale smiles at him, and Crowley’s answering grin is dazzling.

* * *

Finding himself astride a large white horse is not something Aziraphale will ever get used to. Horses are not his favourite mode of transport: especially not while wearing a full suit of armour. There is an opening at the front where the tassets sit to allow for the horse’s withers and the ornate pommel of the saddle, but these things have the regrettable habit of pinching the soft skin of his belly if he slumps forward even a tiny bit. Crowley is keeping pace beside him on a large black beast that looks more evil than several demons put together. It has flaming red eyes and steam billowing from each nostril like it might be a dragon in disguise. 

Crowley, for his part, looks as uncomfortable as Aziraphale feels. He and horses never coexist happily for long. 

“Calm down you silly beast!” Crowley tugs ineffectively on the reins, which only seems to enrage the animal further. 

“I don’t think that horse knows how to be calm.” Aziraphale has to suddenly steer his own horse to the left to avoid Crowley’s mare who has pinned her ears back and tried to rip a chunk out of his leg with razor sharp teeth. 

“I told her she’s glue if she doesn’t get me there in one piece, but I don’t think she’s interested in constructive criticism.” As if to underline the point, the black mare hops up into a low rear, waving and stamping her front feet.

Aziraphale needs to get them both out of this place as quickly as possible. If Crowley falls off now (as always happens whenever he tries to ride a horse), then there’s no telling what will happen to the ship.

“Crowley, I read somewhere that horses can sense the emotions of humans. I’m sure the same is true of demons. Maybe if you just think calm thoughts, she will stop trying to discorporate anything that comes within range.”

“Woosahh,” Crowley says, continuously, for several minutes.

The horse marches ahead and stops jigging on the spot, but she still gives Aziraphale a hairy eyeball every now and then. A long caravan of people follows behind them as they trudge through the damp countryside. 

Aziraphale lets the steady back and forth motion of the horse rock him into a calm half-sleep, and lets Crowley lead them where he wants. The mist descends soon after, rendering everything into a formless soup. 

He reaches a hand out across the gap between them, risking the wrath of the black mare, and rests it on Crowley’s arm. Crowley loops the ends of the reins into a single-handed grip, so he can link their fingers together—one black glove woven around a dove grey one. 

It would be nice... if it weren’t for the pain in the backside. 

* * *

The bubble of reality shifts around the Bentley like a wave. Aziraphale is roused by the sudden pitching and rolling of gravity that sends him sliding abruptly left until he hits something hard. It’s darker than night, and there is an eerie creaking noise.

“Let there be light!” He pulls a glowing orb out of the ether and sends it bobbing up above his head. There is wooden decking under his feet and the sound of waves hitting the side of a large vessel. Crowley is blinking owlishly at him from the helm, where he’s slumped against a wheel that’s almost as big as he is. 

“Boat’s haunted,” he tells Aziraphale, with a happy grin.

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale is still shaking off the temporospatial kickback of finding oneself in a memory long forgotten. The Ark looks just as it did in the great flood, and smells no better. Crowley’s hair is long and unkempt, falling in loose waves about his shoulders.

“I said, the boat’s haunted! There’s a spirit stuck inside it. She keeps asking me for directions. And I said, what, do I look like a compass to you? So she smacked me in the face with the wheel while I wasn’t paying attention. I think she’s mad at me.” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says, exasperated.

“Oi, it’s Crawley angel, how many times to I have to tell you. Although...” he looks thoughtful.

“Sorry, sorry.” Aziraphale apologises quickly, and tries to re-orient himself to the person he was several thousand years earlier. 

“When’s this rainbow supposed to turn up then?” Crowley asks, looking up into the night sky that’s still blanketed with heavy cloud. 

“Soon now, just a bit further.”

“Are the kids okay?” Crowley looks lost for a moment, as if an old wound has reopened. 

“Everyone is fine. You just need to keep us travelling in the right direction, and everything will be ok.” 

“That’s good angel. I know I should be happy so many souls were sent to hell. I mean, it’s my job and all. But the Almighty doesn’t need to make it quite so easy.” He laughs a little nervously.

“Her plans are mysterious, I’ll grant you that. But you mustn’t let it bother you while you’ve got such an important job to do.” 

“I shouldn’t be here, Aziraphale. If Hell finds out I helped humans, I’ll be put through a meat-grinder.” Aziraphale puts a hand on Crowley’s forehead and settles him with a firm miracle.

“None of that now, dear. Everything will be just fine. Just remember, second star to the right, and straight on till morning.” Crowley’s expression clears immediately.

“Ok angel, sounds good.” 

The sun peeks over the horizon soon enough, and Aziraphale almost doesn’t notice when waves become hillsides and the boat turns back into a car. 

Months turn into years, and the familiar hum of the engine and Crowley’s soft smile carry him, like a leaf in a stream, through the ticking passage of time.

* * *

It takes him a minute to realise what’s happened. At first, Aziraphale has a terrible moment thinking that the ship has exploded unexpectedly and he’s died. That would explain why he can’t make any sense of what his eyes are trying to tell him. Eventually, the blinding white coalesces into shapes and forms, and he can get a feel for where he is, or more importantly _when_ he is. 

  
Crowley | Anka-Skier

  
Crowley | Anka-Skier

Crowley is there, but not as Aziraphale has ever seen him. His red hair is long, billowing softly around shoulders which are swathed in some kind of white material that has the appearance and movement of silk, but there’s something else unquantifiable about it that makes the gown hard to perceive with human eyes. Within the bounds of the dream, Aziraphale feels safe enough to appear in his non-corporeal form at first, but he desperately doesn’t want to startle Crowley.

Crowley himself hasn’t noticed Aziraphale’s presence, and stays focused on the objects in his hands. Two bright lights are spinning around between his cupped fingers, and he twists and turns them in his hands, considering every angle. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale says, drawing nearer. He quashes the stab of fear when there is no hint of recognition in Crowley’s gold-flecked eyes.

“Hey, what can I do for you?” Crowley asks, turning back to his work with an air of indifference. 

“Ah, I was just in the neighbourhood and thought I would pop by and say hello.” Aziraphale smiles at Crowley’s bafflement.

“In the neighbourhood? We’re in the middle of nowhere.” 

“Er, right. Yes. Well…” He casts about for a better explanation, but Crowley beats him to it.

“Got sick of the food too, eh? Well, you won’t find anything much out here. I’m still building this star system. Haven’t gotten too far with the planets yet.” Crowley holds the two stars in his palms up for Aziraphale’s inspection.

“They look lovely, I’m sure someone will be delighted to call it home one day,” Aziraphale says, hoping to jog some memories loose without being indelicate. Crowley just favours him with a shy, pleased smile. 

“I hope so. Should be done by tomorrow at any rate. I just want to take my time, and get it just right.” 

“Of course, you’ve always appreciated good craftsmanship,” Aziraphale agrees.

“I’m sorry, do we know each other? I feel like I would remember seeing you around.” Crowley gives him a very deliberate once over, and Aziraphale feels himself flush slightly (although such a thing would not normally be possible for a being with no cardio-vascular system).

“No, I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m Aziraphale.” He laughs when Crowley struggles to gather the two glowing orbs in one hand and reach out for a handshake with the other. The moment their fingers touch, it’s like being hit with a wave at the beach. Aziraphale feels completely unmoored.

“And I’m… late! Shit!” Crowley pushes the orbs into Aziraphale’s hands in a rush. “Here, take these. Could you do me a favour and pop them in that nebula? I have to meet Lucifer for some team thing this afternoon, and I do not want to be the last one through the door.”

“Don’t go!” Aziraphale shouts, and Crowley pauses.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours, tops. If you want to, you can help me finish the planets on this one? Only if you want to…” Crowley bites his lip, and gives Aziraphale a hopeful smile. 

Aziraphale does his best to conceal his horror, and smiles tightly.

“Of course, I would love to,” Aziraphale says, finally. Crowley beams at him with carefree ease. The expression carries none of the weight of their lifetimes of connection, but instead is bright with an innocent optimism and the promise of something new and exciting. 

“See you in a jiffy, then!” Crowley winks at him, eyes sparkling. Aziraphale lets him get a few steps before he forces himself to speak.

“Crowley, wake up!”

The dream vanishes, and Crowley wakes.

“Aziraphale,” he starts to speak, but the angel forestalls him.

“Crowley, please explain this to me, because I am very close to losing my mind.” Aziraphale turns the dream over in his memory, but there is only one explanation for the dread that’s settled under his ribs. “Did you ever finish your work?”

Crowley rubs his eyes roughly and shrugs, turning to face Aziraphale with a look of naked confusion and despair. 

“I don’t know! I just, I can’t remember.” Crowley starts to shake, but Aziraphale doesn’t reach for him. 

“You can’t remember?” 

“You know what happened to me after I fell. Some things got taken away. They left me the memories of what I did wrong, but other than that, I just can’t see it. I can’t see what I did. It’s all just blank.” 

“And in all this time, you didn’t think maybe it might be a good idea to check before you dragged ten thousand humans halfway across the galaxy?”

“Angel, I asked you... no, I begged you to come with me to Alpha Centauri, and you turned me down. Twice.” Crowley swipes at the side of his eye where a tear is threatening to escape. “And then the world almost ended and I thought you were dead. Forgive me for not being in a hurry to pop out there for a long weekend.”

Aziraphale is quiet for a long time. Crowley stews, fingers whiteknuckled at the wheel and teeth clenched. 

“So what do we do now?” Aziraphale asks, titling his eyes upward to will back his own tears. 

“Your lot would say to have faith.” Crowley says it like a peace offering.

“I’m afraid we’re in short supply out here,” Aziraphale replies, and opens the door to the Bentley. “Will you be all right for a while? I think I need to get some fresh air, clear my head.” 

Crowley does little more than nod in agreement, and watch him go.

* * *

Adam paces outside the door of the bridge, and keeps reaching up to knock, only to divert at the last minute. Dog watches him with a toothy look of canine judgement from his spot atop the storage locker opposite the door. Adam has come to ask for Crowley’s help, but his own help is evidently needed when Aziraphale nearly flattens him on his way out the door. 

“Keep him talking.” The angel tosses the terse instruction over one shoulder as he marches off up the hall. 

“Hello Aziraphale, long time no see. I’m great, thanks for asking,” Adam addresses the angel’s retreating back. He sighs, and ventures through the door and onto the bridge. 

Adam opens the Bentley’s passenger door with a perfectly reasonable amount of fear, but Crowley doesn’t threaten to banish him, or eviscerate him, or suggest any of the other usual forms of bodily harm. He also looks less menacing when he’s only just woken up, so Adam decides to chance it.

“What do you want?” Crowley mumbles, as Adam sits down and reaches for the knob on the radio. Crowley bats his hand away from the volume and turns the radio off again, but his movements are sluggish and imprecise. 

“Honestly, what is it with you two?” Adam glares at him, and says in an overly polite voice, “Good evening AJ, how have you been? I’m so glad to see you’re not actually dead.” 

“Yet.” 

Adam ignores the interjection. “Apparently I’m your in-flight entertainment for as long as Aziraphale is pissed at you. So I guess I’d better get comfortable,” Adam pulls a deck of trick cards from his pocket. “I’ve been practicing what Aziraphale taught me back when we first took off, and I reckon I’m pretty good now.” The cards slip out of his hands in an explosive flutter, and most disappear under the seats, never to be seen again.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, not you too!” Crowley bellows like a cow undergoing an invasive veterinary procedure. 

“Aziraphale told me you love magic. I’m not as good as he is but I’m not convinced he doesn’t cheat with real miracles.”

Adam can’t quite parse the expression on Crowley’s face now, but it’s definitely not good. His mouth is making a sound, but no discernable words come out. Adam elects to move away from Aziraphale as a choice of conversation topic. 

“I’m sorry, I know the last few months have been pretty rough,” Adam gives Crowley what he hopes is an encouraging smile. The demon just glares at him.

“Look, can we not do the talking thing,” Crowley says, turning away to stare resolutely out the front window. 

“I think you should probably be resting anyway. But Aziraphale—” Adam snaps his mouth shut at the paint-peeling glare Crowley gives him. “Fine, let’s talk about something else, then.”

“Why don’t you tell me how the fuck you managed to blow the circuits in the maintenance bay.”

Adam chews his lip for a moment, and tries to decide if Crowley will be more or less pissed off if Adam tells him the truth that’s been eating away at him for years. Aziraphale has been so focused on the demon behind the wheel, he hasn’t had any apparent interest in the goings on of the rest of the ship. 

So Adam has been largely left to his own devices, and hasn’t mentioned to anyone about the voices coming back. After the incident with the asteroids, he has been working overtime to keep his mind on the job, but of late no amount of mindfulness or meditation seems to help. 

While Crowley’s mood doesn’t seem all that conducive to Adam getting any kind of reasonable constructive advice, getting an audience with someone who understands infernal energy is an opportunity he can’t really pass up. Even if Crowley is looking at him like he has keyed the Bentley.

Only an hour ago, he’d been working on a trash compactor for the kitchen when he’d caught the reflection of something red and glowing in the brushed metal of the sink. He’d dropped the screw-driver down the open void in surprise when he had realised it was his eyes that were glowing. He was rushing up to the bridge to try and see if Aziraphale would let him speak to Crowley when the angel had stormed out. Now he wonders if he should have just come back another time.

Adam girds himself for the inevitable tongue-lashing. “The voices are back, and they are really loud, so I locked myself in the maintenance bay so no one else would see me.” 

“Shit,” is all Crowley says. 

“They keep telling me the same thing over and over… to make it happen, and make it real… whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.” Adam flips the queen of hearts over his fingers, until Crowley incinerates the card with an irritated curse. 

“Make what happen?” Crowley’s stare is hard and penetrating despite his exhaustion. 

“I don’t know! If I knew, I wouldn’t be here talking to you!” All of the incidents thus far have been while he is asleep, until this morning—his symptoms are worsening, and denial will only get him so far. 

“All right, settle down before you blow the power in another deck of the ship.”

“I just hate not knowing. Every night I go to sleep and its the same fucking dream, over and over. It’s a perfect day, like that summer when I was a kid, before the world almost ended. I’m with my friends and we’re hanging out in Hogback Wood. The afternoon goes on and on forever, no parents calling us in for tea, no school… even when it’s raining I never get cold. And then this weird old lady comes over and starts blathering on about me ruining her plans.”

“It’s probably your grandmother. She’s bound to be a bit tetchy after what we’ve done.” Crowley shrugs.

“You don’t think She’s trying to sabotage the ship by driving me mental?” Adam feels the cold creep of dread crawling over his skin. 

“I wouldn’t put it past Her.” 

“So what should I do?” 

“Tell Her to fuck off, s’what I did,” Crowley’s voice slurs a bit, and Adam has to prop him up when his head lolls forwards. The demon looks about to pass out, and Adam starts to panic. 

“Hey, hey - stay with me!” He pinches Crowley’s arm. “Won’t that antagonise Her?” Adam asks, trying to keep the thread of the conversation going, as he gently holds Crowley’s eyelid up to check his pupils. Large black pools stare back at him.

“Who are you?” Crowley fixes him with a bewildered glare and swipes at Adam’s hands on his face. 

“Crap… Aziraphale!” Adam yells, extending his voice as far across the ship as he can. 

* * *

Brian and Wensleydale are doing their best to inject a little fun back into their grand adventure, but after nearly three thousand days in transit, their inspiration reserves are running a little low. Now that Uranus jokes are no longer topical, they have found themselves scraping the bottom of a very unimaginative barrel. 

They’re supposed to be doing inventory: the tedium of paperwork is busywork designed to keep them sane. Brian is of the opinion that it’s having the opposite effect. 

“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with S.” Wensley declares, looking out the port-hole. 

“Is it Space?” Brian asks with the tone of someone who has been playing this game for some time and is getting righteously sick of it.

“Yes. And how many mils of honey do you have left in reserve?”

“I’m down to my last hundred. Tell your bees to work harder,” Brian stabs his index finger at the tablet in front of him. “I spy with my little eye something beginning with S.”

“Stars?”

“Yes!”

“I spy with my little eye…”

“If it begins with 'S' I'm going to kill you…” Brian is saying when Wensley tries frantically to shush him. 

They’re not supposed to be grumpy, Adam had said, or the ship (and by association Aziraphale) will know. There is just enough left-over Catholic guilt on Wensley’s part to make him a bit afraid of disappointing the angel, though Brian has no such concerns after butting heads with Aziraphale in his capacity as Chief Medical Officer on several occasions. What the angel called ‘barbarian medical practises’, Brian called modern medicine, and the two had agreed to disagree. 

Aziraphale however, passes them like a ghost, not even bothering to admonish them for such childish threats of violence.

“What’s up with him? I haven’t seen him out here for ages.” Brian asks, and Wensley just shrugs.

“No idea, but it doesn’t look good,” Wensley peers around the corner where Aziraphale has disappeared. “Do you think we should follow him?”

Brian, who is desperate for any and all distractions, is on his feet before Wensley can finish his sentence. The imminent onset of middle age has done little to dim the youthful insouciance that has been a defining characteristic of the Them. Brian, Wensley, and Pepper have all weathered the years in space with nary a wrinkle nor a grey hair, leaving many to wonder if there is something not quite human about the three of them. 

They don’t get far before they spot the angel in a darkened corner of the ship and have to duck behind a bulkhead to avoid being seen. 

“What do you two want?” The angel’s voice is tired, and Wensley and Brian are forced to sheepishly step back into the hall where Aziraphale is slumped over on one of the low benches that line the hallways. 

“We’re sorry,” Wensleydale blurts, and smacks Brian until he echoes the apology, albeit less sincerely. “We just wanted to see if you were ok.”

Aziraphale doesn’t respond right away, and Wensley starts to fidget until Brian kicks him in the shin. 

“Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine. You may run along now,” Aziraphale says, giving them a measured smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“C’mon Brian.” Wensley starts to hustle Brian back the way they came, but he sidesteps.

“Go on, I’ll be back shortly,” Brian says, and Wensleydale just huffs and leaves him to it. He mutters something that sounds a lot like “it’s your funeral” and scuttles away. The cloud of energy that Aziraphale has been putting out is a lot to take. 

“Honestly, young man, there is nothing to worry about.” Aziraphale’s voice is exasperated, but his usual angelic sincerity is absent. Brian plonks down on the bench seat, and lets the angel stew in the awkward silence. “I’m fine!” Aziraphale glares at him, but the irritation has a brittle edge of fear.

“I know you don’t put much stock in it, but I _am_ a doctor. I’m trained to help people, and I can help you if you’ll let me.” 

“Human medicine is not much use on an angel,” Aziraphale argues.

“Maybe not, but it can’t hurt to try. Is there something on your mind?” Brian keeps his posture open and relaxed, and after several long minutes, Aziraphale unclenches his jaw to speak.

“I suppose I’m having a bit of a crisis of faith.” 

“We’ve been out here a long time. Having to be strong and have faith when others lose theirs must be a heavy weight to carry.”

“I am angry, and I am scared. Those are two things that are very dangerous for a being like me.” Aziraphale twists his fingers around each other, knuckles turning white. “And for the first time, I feel like I am truly alone in this.”

“You’re not alone though, not really. You’ve got Crowley,” Brian points out, wondering if that might be the source of Aziraphale’s sad state. He also selfishly wants to make sure there is nothing wrong with the demon keeping them all alive, but fortunately Aziraphale answers him honestly. 

“And what if I lose my faith in him? I’ve let myself believe that everything will be okay because he’s told me it will be. But if he’s wrong, then what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it. Blind faith is asking for disappointment. Has Crowley ever let you down before?”

Aziraphale pauses, and Brian watches a complicated array of emotions cross his face before settling on something pinched. 

“He’s a demon!” Aziraphale says as if that is proof enough, but the statement lacks heat—almost as if it’s just an old reflex. The angel sighs and rubs a hand across his eyes. “But I know I’ve not listened to him when I should have. There have been times when I’ve disappointed him, I’m sure. I’ve chosen to put my faith in Her instead, and it almost cost Crowley his life.” 

“And yet, here you are. Together.” Brian risks a grin. Counselling an immortal being that is several millennia older than he is does seem to be above his pay grade, but Brian isn’t about to leave it to anyone else. He tries to steer Aziraphale away from any negative feelings towards Crowley, wanting—for the sake of all aboard—to ensure that any supernatural disputes don’t escalate.

“So you’re telling me I shouldn’t have doubts?” Aziraphale says, and Brian gives him a pass for being deliberately obtuse about this. 

“I’m not telling you anything. Just ask yourself if choosing to doubt or choosing to believe is the healthiest option. We don’t have the luxury of much out here. We’ve just got to make the best of it,” he says, and pats the angel on the shoulder as he stands up. “Besides, from what I’m hearing, you’ve given God the benefit of the doubt even when you didn’t have proof. Doesn’t Crowley deserve as much?” 

Whatever Aziraphale was going to say is cut off in a huff of air. He turns his head suddenly, body gone stiff like a dog that can hear something far away that the average human can’t perceive. 

“I’m afraid I have to go. I’ll think on it,” Aziraphale says in a rush, waving off Brian’s offer to help him to his feet. The angel stomps back the way he came, and Brian shudders when the cloud of Aziraphale’s holiness finally dissipates. 

Wensley laughs when he sees him, and just hands him a chocolate bar without comment, for which Brian is eternally grateful. Brian isn’t calling his first angel therapy session a success, but he didn’t get smited into another dimension, so it wasn’t a failure either. 

* * *

“I told you to keep him talking!” Aziraphale shouts at Adam as he marches back into the bridge. Crowley has one clawed hand around Adam’s neck and Dog is scrabbling at the rear window trying to get out. 

Aziraphale puts Crowley under with a snap of his fingers, and Adam heaves in a gulping breath as Crowley sags backwards. The Antichrist all but scrambles to escape from the passenger seat of the car so Aziraphale can take his place. Crowley is resistant when Aziraphale sets his hands back on the wheel, but finally quiets when Aziraphale reaches out to run calming fingers across his neck and shoulders. 

Adam tries to cough quietly, and gathers Dog up from the backseat. 

“You should have been here! I thought he was okay, and then he just sort of faded out. When he came back he didn’t recognise me and went ballistic.”

“I don’t know how much longer we can keep this up.” Aziraphale is tired, and feels his hackles rise when Adam slams the passenger door shut against his elbow. 

“You shouldn’t have left him. I don’t care if you want to piss off and have a hissy fit, he needs you here!” Adam yells at him, voice all pent up fury from months of festering irritation and no outlet. Suddenly incensed, Aziraphale can’t help remembering the weight of a heavy gun in his arms and a cherubic young face glaring at him in defiance. 

“Need I remind you, Crowley wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for your harebrained scheme!” 

“Fuck you, Aziraphale. Seriously, you are a fucking arsehole sometimes.” 

“Angel?” Crowley wakes when Aziraphale’s fingers seize reflexively around the soft hairs at the base of his neck. 

“Adam, just go away. I’ll deal with this.” 

“Right, sure. You always know what’s best, don’t you!” Adam stalks away, Dog scampering after him in a determined effort not to get left behind. The outer door slams shut, and Aziraphale and Crowley are left alone in the dim cabin. 

* * *

“Don’t blame the boy, angel. I dragged us out here.” Crowley’s voice is louder than he intends, roughened and gravelly in the cloying stillness that has settled over the bridge. 

Aziraphale doesn’t startle, but the angel’s shoulders go tense as if preparing to argue. He sits there, frozen in indignation, until all at once the fight seems to leave him. He turns to Crowley with a tentative expression. 

“Crowley, will you tell me about our new home?”

“Angel, that’s not funny.”

“Just tell me anything you remember, maybe if there is some glimmer of hope, it might stop us all from going completely barking.”

Crowley sighs, and rubs at his eyes. They’re dry and itching from the lack of blinking, and floating dots of dust make his vision spotty. Aziraphale looks even more angelic, lined by a blurry halo of light as it flares when it hits the lenses of his eyes. 

“I don’t know what we are going to find when we get there. I haven’t been there in centuries, and as far as I can remember, I was only half way through designing it when I got kicked off the heavenly plane.“

“But you might have finished it, and you just don’t remember?” Aziraphale’s voice has taken on the bullish tone he uses when he’s trying to justify something dubious that God has done. Crowley is taken aback for a moment by fact that Aziraphale is trying to defend Crowley’s actions for once, and not the Almighty’s—he’s not used to hearing that voice speaking for him and not against him. 

“I don’t know angel, is what I’m telling you. It could be ok, but who the hell really knows.”

“Humans believe there is a planet out there that can sustain life. Are they mistaken?” 

“Let’s hope not,” Crowley says, and mentally pleads with Aziraphale to let it go, just for a while. His mind is starting to tie itself in knots keeping the ship moving forward without giving in to the weight of crushing despair that makes him want to drop anchor right here and never have to find out what lies at the end of the journey.

Usually, he’d have a heart-to-heart with the Almighty—God knows he could do with a good vent right about now. But if She did indeed heal Aziraphale at his request, he can hardly go begging for another favour. If it were only a matter of pride, he would start praying in a heartbeat. But he’s genuinely unsure what the angel would say if he knew Crowley had used up his one free miracle to keep Aziraphale with him. Would he be happy? Would he be disappointed?

Crowley keeps the question to himself, and sternly tells his brain that it’s not guilt he’s feeling. It’s not like he weighed up the pros and cons, and decided Aziraphale’s life was worth more than securing the future for humanity. He’s never been a fan of absolutes. 

* * *

Adam tosses and turns in his pod, long limbs flailing and twitching like an electric current is zinging through his body. His mind is lost on a distant planet, flying through empty valleys and across a vast field of ice and snow where glaciers meet. It’s a desolate landscape, cold and unforgiving. The sound of the ice cracking and shifting is like the bones of a giant, creaking and popping as it wakes from a deep sleep. 

In the sky, the red sun glows brighter and brighter. 

* * *

“What happens if there is nothing there?” It’s been hours since Crowley surprised him with a gentle kiss to the top of his hand and turned back to the endless black before them. Aziraphale hasn’t sent Crowley back into the dream for fear that his own distracted state will have unfortunate consequences, but the demon is drooping more by the minute.

“We keep looking, as long as it takes.” Crowley says definitively, though the effect is somewhat lost by the sheer exhaustion on his face. 

“You’re dying, Crowley! We can’t go on forever. It will kill you.” Crowley looks sick, and Aziraphale can’t help the fear that sends his voice up an octave. 

“Angel, I’m sorry. I know that this wasn’t the way things were supposed to go.” Axiraphale has heard enough apologies to last several lifetimes, and none have brought them any closer to a solution. He swallows heavily. 

“No, it wasn’t. I don’t want this to be the death of you. You have to promise me that when it gets too much, you’ll let go. You’ll let me take you somewhere safe.” 

“What about the humans?” Crowley’s voice is aghast.

“I know Crowley,” he shouts, “I know!” Aziraphale wants to scream. _How can love be like this? How can it make you want to do something so terrible, so selfish?_ “If you’re dead—” he chokes on the words, “—then they die either way. Somehow we need to make peace with that.” 

Crowley is silent for a while and as still as a statue, so deathly soundless that Aziraphale worries he’s lost consciousness again. 

“Maybe we won’t have to,” Crowley speaks as though the words are strangling him. “I’m sorry I can’t give you what you need angel. You want to know the future, ask the witch.” 

“How can I tell her that she’s going to die out here? It would be a cruelty worse than death, to be waiting for the end.” 

“So lie. Lie like you did to God and to Gabriel—” Crowley’s voice catches, “—and like you lied to me. I believed every damn word you’ve ever said, angel. Hook, line and sinker.” 

“I…” Aziraphale’s expression cracks like a broken teacup, all sharp edges and spilling liquid.

“Just lie to me, tell me it’s going to be okay. I know you can do it. If you care about me at all, just tell me what I want to hear.” 

Aziraphale snaps his eyes shut, and drags them both back into the dream. 

There is a smooth gravel road stretching ahead to the horizon, and the countryside is a flat expanse of featureless green in every direction.

“Everything will be fine, I promise,” Aziraphale tells him, and though Crowley still looks lost and confused, his smile is soft and hopeful when Aziraphale takes his hand. 

“I love you, angel.” 

A moment of lucidity steals its way across Crowley’s face, pursued by a hot flush of embarrassment that Aziraphale can feel echoed on his own skin. Crowley asked him to lie, but for once Aziraphale finds himself only able to tell the truth. 

“I love you too, dearest.”


	11. Chapter 11

It’s the nature of most road hazards that they’re hidden until the very last moment, where avoidance becomes an impossibility. Crowley is used to accounting for farmers who’ve been a bit too casual when latching the gate to the field were their cows are grazing. He’s also seen his fair share of suicidal pigeons and hares that have zigged when they should have zagged. The unicorn though, comes as a bit of a surprise.

The impact is significant. It brings the Bentley to a metal-warping halt, two wheels in a drainage ditch and the front half of the engine bay is caved in. One headlamp dangles by a thread, and there are lumps of white skin and hair lodged in the intake manifold. Crowley notices none of this, having been rendered unconscious by his head impacting the steering wheel. Aziraphale, who was launched through the windshield by the sudden deceleration, wrestles himself free of a bramble bush and staggers back onto the road towards the car.

The unicorn itself is nowhere to be seen, but in the wake of its destruction the Bentley has stalled, completely dead. Crowley stirs before Aziraphale can drag himself back to the driver’s side door. The chassis is bent, but Crowley still manages to pop the door open and spill himself out onto the grassy verge, where he lies, head spinning until Aziraphale’s face appears above him.

“Did a unicorn just hit my Bentley, or is it my head injury talking?” Crowley puts a hand over his eyes to block the luminous angelic concern radiating above his face. His vision has gone all swimmy, black spots and bright flashes all competing for space behind his eyelids. 

He’s not sure, but it’s entirely possible that he passes out for a few minutes.

* * *

Adam jerks awake in his pod, startled into consciousness by the lurch and brief flare of red lights. He pulls his tablet out of the bedside drawer, cursing when a large red x displays against one of the primary engines. The energy output has fallen to zero percent, and the screen warns him about some sort of fluid or gas being vented into space. 

He forces his legs into a pair of worn blue work trousers and shoves his feet into his boots, not wasting the time to put socks on. By the time he runs out the door, alarms are ringing down the halls. 

* * *

Aziraphale maintains the illusion of the country road for Crowley’s benefit, even though he desperately wants to make sure the ship is still in one piece. Getting propelled through the windshield of the car doesn’t give him much confidence that the bridge hasn’t been vented into space. 

“Don’t be ridiculous Crowley, there hasn’t been a unicorn in millenia. It was just a large white horse,” Aziraphale tells him as he kneels down and presses Crowley back into the soft grass when he tries to sit up. 

“Angel, not that I don’t enjoy you manhandling me—” Crowley gives him a grin and slides a hand on top of Aziraphale’s where it splays over his heart and presses the side of his hip against Aziraphale’s folded knees, “—but now doesn’t seem like the time.” 

Aziraphale snatches his hand back, cursing himself for losing focus, and tries to ignore the flash of hurt that crosses Crowley’s face. Crowley’s mind reaches out to him through their connection, knocked off-kilter by Aziraphale’s sudden psychic rejection as much as the physical one, but Aziraphale is too slow to notice Crowley’s building distress. 

Crowley fights against the hold Aziraphale has on his mind in the dream, struggling to wake up and push Aziraphale’s intrusion away. He holds Crowley under, but only barely. The demon slumps further into the grass, hand falling limply at his side. 

Aziraphale lets his mind withdraw slowly, but the damage is done. Crowley slams doors shut across all the deepest parts of his mind, and Aziraphale is left swaying in place on the roadside as Crowley slithers out of his grasp. The demon staggers to his feet and retreats to a safe distance, and Aziraphale can do little but watch him go.

Crowley weaves as he walks away, waving a careless hand at the front of the car. The Bentley remakes itself into a whole and roadworthy vehicle, popping the driver’s side door open wider in invitation. Crowley slips back inside, and makes a hurry up gesture to Aziraphale through the no-longer-cracked windshield. 

“Come on, angel, we don’t have all day.” 

Aziraphale sighs and pulls himself back to his feet. He hops back in the car, noting that the Bentley doesn’t extend the same courtesy of the open door for him. 

Crowley is vulnerable and honest in a way that Aziraphale can no longer ignore now that he’s seen the inside of Crowley’s mind—what he once viewed as Crowley’s demonic need to tempt is distressingly genuine in the safety of the dream, and Aziraphale can’t help the sting of guilt he feels. His own feelings for Crowley are mired in the same nervous uncertainty that they’ve always been, made worse by their more recent disagreements and the somewhat insoluble situation. 

If Crowley closes a door only to trap himself behind it, Aziraphale can’t imagine it will end well for the ship or its cargo. Still, he puts his seatbelt on (not in a hurry to repeat his earlier ejection), and reaches for the knob on the radio, hoping that some familiar music might keep the peace. 

Aziraphale has always viewed the mismatched and antiquated array of knobs and dials on the Bentley’s instrument panel with nothing more than an idle curiosity. He has no idea what most of them do, aside from the petrol indicator and the speedometer (one of which he studies quite closely when Crowley is behind the wheel). Nevertheless, he’s quite certain that unmodified early twentieth century Bentleys do not, as a rule, have a Check Engine light. 

It’s obvious the moment Aziraphale looks in that direction - an ominous little orange symbol that he’s sure wasn’t there before the accident. Crowley doesn’t seem to have noticed, or is ignoring it the same way he ignores the petrol indicator. The anachronism staring them in the face bodes poorly either way, and considering where they are, it would be a terrible inconvenience for them to break down. 

Crowley reaches for the ignition, and the moment he turns the key a bolt of electricity erupts from the dash, knocking him out cold. The bridge goes dark.

* * *

“Crowley?” Aziraphale shakes him, putting two fingers up to his neck when he gets no response. There is a steady rhythmic push against his fingers, but it’s very slow and doesn’t change when Aziraphale calls his name again. 

Aziraphale picks up the tiny hand-held radio that Adam gave him, but when he switches it on he’s greeted with a cacophony of panicked voices. 

“Aziraphale, if you can hear me, we’ve got a problem!”

“Yes, I rather think we do. Can you come to the bridge?” 

“Not right now, I’ve got some damage control to do here. Can you manage?”

“I’ll try,” Aziraphale replies, and drops the radio back onto the dashboard. He looks over at Crowley, who is still comatose and faintly smoking from the shock. There are tears tracking down his face and blood leaking from the corner of a bitten lip. But he’s still alive. 

Aziraphale lets his mind return to the dream, and searches for Crowley in the dark waters of unconsciousness. He begins his search on the side of the road where the Bentley is still parked, but there is no sign of Crowley in the car. 

The ship keeps on the trajectory, but across the decks, Aziraphale can feel that systems are failing. He can’t find Crowley anywhere in the dreamscape, and any attempts to stir him in the waking world prove futile. 

“Things are looking pretty grim,” A female voice startles him from the back seat. She leans forward between them, and pokes Crowley in the side of the head. “He doesn’t look so good.”

Aziraphale shrieks, and flings himself back against the door of the car. “My Lord, um. Hello?”

“Aziraphale, glad to see you’ve managed not to get discorporated again. Crowley was most distressed last time.” She gives him a benevolent wave.

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale chokes out, trying not to fling himself across the car and into the divine warmth of her holy light.

“Last time I stopped by, you’d managed to get yourself in quite a sad state, but Crowley never let go. He used up the free miracle I gave him to bring you back. It was quite the romantic gesture,” she says, in a voice that sounds almost proud.

“Free miracle? I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.” Aziraphale’s brain is starting to steam.

“Well, I mean, he could have used it to guarantee the voyage would be successful, but then you went and almost died. He was very upset.” God gives him a gentle maternal smile. 

“Ma’am, while I am of course honoured that you would choose to speak to me, I am afraid we’re rather in a bit of a jam. Another one that is.” Aziraphale finally gets the words out. “My lord is there any chance you could—” she cuts him off.

“You’ve got this, Aziraphale. I just stopped by to say hello, and wish you a pleasant trip.” She waves again and in the time it takes for him to blink, She’s gone.

“Fuck!” Aziraphale yells, emphatically at the empty space in the back seat.

Aziraphale drags Crowley’s limp body from the drivers’ seat and lays him down against the passenger door, wings hanging over the back of the seat as neatly as Aziraphale can make them. It’s an awkward clamber in tight confines to get himself behind the wheel, but he manages it after some grunting and groaning. Crowley doesn’t wake up when Aziraphale accidentally elbows him in the ribs, so the angel holds little hope that he’ll wake up for anything else.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and places his hands on the steering wheel. Suddenly, she’s there, all around him, screaming like a banshee. 

“Hello dear, yes I know I’m not who you want to speak to right now, but I need your help,” Aziraphale tells the car, wincing as the engine bellows at him in warning.

“There are two suns just over there, and I would very much like it if you wouldn’t crash into them. Crowley is indisposed, so if you’d be so kind as to not blow up while I drive, I would be much obliged.” Aziraphale presses carefully on the accelerator.

The feeling of being connected to such a machine is not unlike listening to death metal in a language you don’t speak, but Aziraphale gamely turns the radio up anyway. The Bentley spews a burst of white noise that nearly deafens him, but the sound resolves into a familiar staccato beat, and high register piano chords come in over the top. 

“Pressure, pushing down on me!” David Bowie sings, and Aziraphale grits his teeth. 

* * *

The two stars are no longer the tiny pinpricks in the distance. Up close, they are immense and blinding. The third star at their destination is dwarfed by the magnitude of the others. But it’s there, glowing like a red ember in the coals of a dwindling fire. 

Aziraphale can feel the heat through the glass, as if he’s standing too close to the door of an oven. His mouth turns to cotton and his skin starts to tighten, all moisture getting chased away by the intense sunlight. His eyes adjust quickly—they’re used to the extreme whiteness of Heaven—but after all the years in the black of space, he feels the sting.

Crowley’s tears have dried, and his complexion has taken on a healthier looking colour, having at least lost some of the green pallor. He wakes enough to lean into the warmth, finally thawing after years of being cold, and manifesting dark scales that have been hidden away for so long.

There are a host of warning symbols littering the instrument panel now, but Aziraphale tries not to be alarmed by the increasing number and incessant blinking. He can feel the ship starting to rebel against his commands, and the gravity of the suns is starting to feel noticeable in the feedback from the steering wheel. 

Crowley is still glassy-eyed and vacant, and Aziraphale can feel the strain starting to sap him of his own strength. 

“Crowley, please. We need to do something. We’re getting too close now, and we’re going to burn up!” Aziraphale reaches out to shake him, but Crowley’s hand snaps up catching Aziraphale’s wrist before he can poke him in the ribs.

Aziraphale manages to wrench his arm free of Crowley’s iron grasp, and fumbles for the radio. 

He calls Adam, and prays for the Antichrist to answer.

“Aziraphale?” There is another burst of static, but Aziraphale can still hear the “What the fuck does he want now,” that Adam says to whoever is at the other end.

“Adam, can you hear me?”

“Still not a great time!”

“I need you to come to the bridge! Quickly!” Aziraphale is powerless to stop the divine command that bleeds into his voice.

Adam sighs, clearly irritated. “Copy that, on our way!” 

* * *

Outside the bridge, the rumbling and groaning of metal and gravitational disturbances have drawn the humans out of their rooms. The large main corridor is lined with people when Adam runs past, flanked by Pepper and Brian, and heads towards the upper decks. Wensley stays put in the animal wing and does his best to soothe the frantic creatures, all of whom have noticed the rather unpleasant temperature increase. 

Adam first sees it when he runs past a bunch that are all holding hands and singing to calm the small children huddled at the center of the group. There is a strange energy sparking from their auras that earths like lightning into the floor. 

“Everyone, I’m going to need you to hold onto each other. If the gravity malfunctions, you don’t want to float away, so I need every second person to hold onto the railings.” Adam watches the auras as more and more people join the chain. 

The steering wheel feels suddenly lighter in his hands, and Aziraphale nudges the nose of the ship left as the stars loom on the right. It’s not much, but there is a tiny shift.

Adam crashes through the door of the bridge moments later, and there is another surge of power. 

“I’m not sure how, but there is energy coming off the people outside.” 

“Energy?” Aziraphale looks at him, alarmed.

“Like sparks or something. I assume you’re not trying to crash us into that sun?” Adam has to shield his eyes from the glare.

“No, but the ship only listens to me half the time. I need you to take the wheel.” Aziraphale’s voice is panicked.

“If we go through there, we're dead aren't we? I mean dead, dead,” Adam squints out into the burning hot and deathly bright space between the suns where the ship is heading. “I think this will need more than just us.”

Anathema struggles her way through the jumbled crowd outside and onto the bridge, grinning wildly.

“I’ve got it. I know how to get us out of here.”

“I hardly think that now’s the time for witchcraft!” Aziraphale shouts.

“But it is! At first I couldn’t figure it out, nothing on the ship seemed to make sense. But then I realised why,” she holds up a torn piece of paper with a picture of two concentric circles linked by three straight lines, ”—the main corridors are mapped in the shape of the magical sigil for hope!”

“Is that why people are sparking?” Adam asks, and Anathema nods quickly.

“This ship runs on the power of Crowley’s imagination right? What if we could power it with human belief?”

“I have barely been able to keep the humans from dying of boredom and depression. Where are they going to find the will for a belief that strong?” The angel frowns at them both, expression dubious.

“Give them a chance, Aziraphale!”

Crowley stirs, and with a scratchy exhalation manages one word. “Kumbaya.”

“Let us try!”

“Fine, we’re all going to incinerate in a few minutes if it doesn’t work, so I’ll hardly have the time to worry about being proved right,” Aziraphale says in a shirty tone that belies the mounting fear he’s trying to suppress.

Anathema grabs him by the side of the head and gives him a loud smacking kiss on his temple.

“Don’t give up on us yet!”

She runs back out the door dragging Adam with her, and Aziraphale can hear the dull sound of human chanting starting up. 

The energy from outside the ship calls to him, beckoning Aziraphale towards the suns. Both his and Crowley’s true forms are spun from that same energy, but his corporation is feeling the strain of holding together in the bright wash of radiation. It won’t kill them, but being discorporated inside an exploding spaceship doesn’t appeal either—and if they are going to get the humans there in one piece, being corporeal seems to be an essential requirement. 

The sun looms closer, and Aziraphale swipes at the sweat beading on his forehead. His hair is starting to lose its usual verticality and is sticking in wet clumps around his hairline. Crowley has turned to look at him, and there is the bright glint of intelligence returning to his eyes. 

“Hey angel, you’re looking a bit peaky,” Crowley says, reaching out to slide his own damp fingers over Aziraphale’s on the wheel. 

“And you seem to be improving.”

“I feel like I’m coming out of hybernation,” Crowley agrees.

“Crowley, if we don’t make it out of this, I just want you to know that I…”

“We’re going to make it, angel.” Aziraphale wishes he could share Crowley’s optimism, but after years of depleting his powers, he’s not sure his spirit won’t expire right along with his body. He might not get another chance, and Crowley deserves to know the truth.

“All the same, I’ve wanted to tell you that the last six thousand years were worth living because of you.”

Crowley drags himself closer, until he can wrap his arms around the angel’s shoulders.

“And the next six thousand are going to be even better, so promise me you won’t give up,” Crowley replies, tightening his hold.

“I won’t.”

The corridors are glowing now, powered by ten thousand voices of hope and love. Aziraphale feels his own power returning, and the ship jets forward and away from the burning heat of the sun’s radiation field. 

Crowley looks more and more tired the further away they travel, but he’s awake finally, and Aziraphale doesn’t complain when Crowley spares a miracle to banish the sweat from his brow. 

* * *

Aziraphale guides the ship further away from the giant twin suns, until the blazing light dims enough for them to see their destination. The red star is visible again, and Aziraphale begs the Bentley to cooperate enough to get them pointing in the right direction. 

A tiny planet is also hidden there, orbiting the smaller of three suns. Aziraphale can finally pick it out from the shapeless dark, and it is beautiful.

There is a blue ocean and a large continent with tall mountain ranges and wide green valleys. One side is bathed in light, and the far side is blanketed with the dark shadows of a permanent night. It’s both familiar and strange at the same time, but a welcome sight none the less after all the years of travel. 

“Crowley, look! It’s perfect!” Aziraphale turns to Crowley with a wide and relieved smile, but the demon’s brow is furrowed in distress. 

“Angel, what the hell are you doing driving my car?” Crowley—still awake, confused and not happy about it—doesn’t wait for an answer before climbing across Aziraphale’s lap. He slaps Aziraphale’s hands away from the wheel, and is particularly careless with his knees and elbows as he clambers into the drivers’ seat. Aziraphale is forced to scramble across to the passenger side before Crowley permanently injures his spleen. 

“Honestly Crowley!” Aziraphale straightens his tie and lapels and settles back into his side of the seat. “You are letting your controlling tendencies get the better of you and it’s very unbecoming,” Aziraphale says, but Crowley has already lapsed back into a catatonic state and doesn’t even blink at the veiled insult. 

Aziraphale is startled by the sound of something hydraulic wheezing in the front of the Bentley. A large mechanical cable emerges from the area under the steering wheel, slides across the front of Crowley’s chest like a curious caterpillar. He isn’t game to touch it, and the car makes a warning noise when he tries to reach over it to wake Crowley up. 

Crowley himself doesn’t seem to have noticed the protrusion—his unseeing gaze is pointed forward as usual. Trying a different approach, Aziraphale slides back into Crowley’s unconscious mind with little difficulty now that Crowley’s defenses are almost non-existent. The view through the windscreen is only partially complete, and reality is leaking in through the gaps where the dream is losing integrity. Aziraphale can see the outline of the planet beyond the projection of country hillsides, and it’s growing larger as they approach.

“Angel, we’re here.” Crowley’s voice is vacant.

The cable abruptly latches onto Crowley’s temple, and another does the same on his right side, and the dream collapses. Crowley lets out a soundless scream and convulses, but doesn’t try to fight against the cables that hold him.

“Crowley! What’s happening?” Aziraphale drags himself back into the real world, and scoots closer to look at the new attachments to Crowley’s head. The cables are lit up with glowing red pulse flowing down the lines and disappearing behind the steering column. 

“Time to land,” he says, voice still hollow and impersonal. 

Another cable stabs out from the passenger side this time, and pins Aziraphale to the seat by his chest. He barely has time to struggle before a strange and involuntary lassitude takes over his entire body. 

“Sorry angel, need more juice.” 

Aziraphale feels his angelic force funneling out of the center of his body, and is powerless to do anything other than hang on for the ride. 

The ship nudges against the edge of the planet’s upper atmosphere, and begins the slow and firey descent towards the ground. 


	12. Chapter 12

They touch down in a large valley, more by lucky accident than by design, and the impact jolts Aziraphale out of his fugue. His body feels strangely weightless, despite being under the influence of proper planetary gravity for the first time in a decade. 

The cables retract and Crowley slumps forward. Aziraphale struggles against his own restraint until the car lets him go with a reluctant growl as the engine starts to power down. The echo of the human’s energy is enough to keep him going, and he turns his attention to Crowley.

“Crowley, can you hear me?” Aziraphale’s voice is hoarse and scratchy, and his whole body is awash with pins and needles as his poor beleaguered heart tries to pump blood to his limbs again. The dark spots on his vision are stubborn, and his head still feels like its in a spin-dryer, but he’s alive and the ship didn’t explode. It’s a better result than he was expecting if he’s honest.

There is no intelligible response from Crowley, who just groans and says “Ngggggh.”

Aziraphale takes it as a good-ish sign. 

The humans have opened the cargo bay and are curiously stepping out onto the planet’s surface, and Aziraphale can see several who have fallen to their knees or are rolling around on the ground—most are laughing, some are crying and several are doing both at once. 

“Did we make it?” Aziraphale startles at the sound of Crowley’s voice. He almost weeps when those tired yellow eyes meet his gaze with full recognition. Gone is the empty stare and blank indifference. Aziraphale breathes out for what feels like the first time in years.

“Yes, dearest, we made it.” Aziraphale reaches for him, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“Oh,” Crowley says, head lolling onto Aziraphale’s shoulder as the effort of staying upright becomes too great. The angel shuffles them around and opens the door to the car for what feels like the first time in centuries. 

Aziraphale gathers his satchel of treasures from their hiding spot, and his sword and scabbard, slinging both across his back. He picks Crowley up, one arm under his legs and the other under his wings, and carries him cradled against his chest out of the bridge and down to join the humans.

“Rest now. You've done so well,” Aziraphale tells him.

Crowley’s eyes drift shut again, and he murmurs so quietly that only angelic ears can hear.

“Ok, g'night angel.”

“Sleep well my dear. I'll be here when you wake.”

The sky is lit up like a shepherds delight when they arrive at the edge of the cargo bay ramp. Aziraphale carries Crowley through the scattered mob, all of whom have turned to look with confusion at the novel sight of an angel with black wings. Most of them have only heard of Crowley, and the legend has been exaggerated more and more with each retelling. But to see him in the flesh sends a strange ripple of awe across the assembled crowd.

“Is he okay?” One of the braver kids asks, sneaking closer to get a better look at Crowley’s dark feathers.

“He will be,” Aziraphale says, with a note of hope in his voice. He sets Crowley down in the soft grass under a large tree with purple flowers that have blanketed the ground like a carpet. The rest of the crowd turns silent, and one by one, they begin to kneel down on the ground, facing the tree. 

Aziraphale hears Anathema’s voice start singing one of the children’s songs that has come from their life on the Ark—many are too young to remember Earth and most know little of religion, but they still sing a song about an angel who is not always good and a demon who is not always bad, and a long journey home. There are enough rude words in it that Aziraphale is sure Crowley will smile, even fast asleep. 

Eventually the song finishes and the humans disperse, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale in peace. The angel sits by Crowley’s side, one wing held protectively aloft, and watches as Adam begins the enormous task of building a settlement and turning the wild and untouched planet into a suitable home. 

* * *

Having made a safe camp for the night, Adam, followed by the ever-faithful Dog, makes his way towards the tree where Aziraphale is still standing sentry by Crowley’s side. The angel gestures for Adam to come and sit with them, so he manifests a comfortable tree log as a chair and plonks down in the afternoon shade. Dog curls up at his feet looking quite tuckered out, unaccustomed as he is with all the new scents to chase and room to run.

“I had been saving these as a gift for Crowley for when we arrived, but things haven’t quite turned out as I had hoped.” Aziraphale presents Adam with the spindly stalks of several plant cuttings, each tagged with complicated French names. 

“What are these for?” Adam asks, perplexed by the bundle that looks like nothing more than a pile of sticks.

“They’re grape vines, from the village of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Crowley’s favourite. Mine too actually -” Aziraphale’s smile is wistful - “though I don’t know the first thing about growing them, I always thought Crowely and I might start a vineyard one day. He’s got a way with plants.” 

“With all due respect Aziraphale, I’ve seen AJ with his plants. These things would probably need therapy before they’d fruit.” Adam grins, and shelters the plants in his arms like you would a child. 

“You may be right, but I can’t think of anyone more qualified for the job,” he replies, bestowing the former antichrist and saviour of humanity with a proud paternal smile. He also holds out his sword. "6000 years ago, give or take half a century, I gave this sword to another young man named Adam, so he could protect the future of humanity. Today, I'm giving it to you. The garden is yours now, and the sun will never go down here."

“I’m not sure I deserve it. I nearly killed everyone on the ship.” Adam doesn’t take sword, and instead keeps his arms folded across his chest. “You were right about me being a liability.”

“I’ve been around for a long time, Adam. I’ve made more mistakes than you can possibly imagine. We’re all just doing what we can. Look around you—” Aziraphale gestures to the groups of humans scattered about, “—they are here because of you. They will follow your lead.”

Adam takes the sword in one hand, and clutches the plants in the other. 

“You aren’t staying?” Adam asks even though he already knows the answer. 

“I’m afraid not. Crowley needs me now. He’s given so much of himself just to get us here. It’s my turn to take us the rest of the way.” Aziraphale spares a fond look for the sleeping demon. He just hopes that it won’t take the better part of a century this time for Crowley to find a reason to wake. 

“Where will you go?” 

“Not too far, there’s a lovely star near here that Crowley made. I think he should like to return there to recover. It will be much easier to heal the damage to his true form if he has the energy of a whole star system to rest in.”

“Don’t be strangers then,” Adam says, tears in his eyes. “Give Uncle AJ my love when he wakes up.”

“I will,” Aziraphale promises. He gets to his feet and gathers Crowley up once more, stepping out from under the shade of the tree. The demon doesn’t stir, not even when Aziraphale’s wings begin to beat, carrying them upwards through the atmosphere and back out into space. Below them, Adam is now only visible by aura, but the colours swirl like a protective cloak over the new settlement. 

“We did it,” Aziraphale tells Crowley with quiet awe, and sets a course back to Alpha Centauri.

* * *

After six thousand years, give or take, of looking a certain way, Crowley and Aziraphale’s true forms are not so different from their corporeal ones. There is a bit more gold (Aziraphale’s), and a bit more fire (Crowley’s), but on the whole they are still able to smile besottedly (Aziraphale) and gesticulate wildly (Crowley)—and talk to each other as they’ve done for centuries. 

Aziraphale laments for a moment that some of the more corporeal aspects of his body won’t survive too long in space, but it’s a small price to pay to have Crowley awake.

“So that was a thing that happened,” Crowley says, floating sideways across the open abyss of space like a seagull trying to swim against the current. It’s been a long time since the universe was new, and both of them are still remembering how to navigate.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale says, giving him a fond grin. 

“Angel, there’s something I need to tell you.” Crowley’s expression is an uncomfortable grimace. “The Almighty gave me a choice, and I did something incredibly selfish.” 

“I know, dear. It’s all right.” Aziraphale says serenely, waving away Crowley’s objections. “She told me all about how you asked her to save me. You needn’t worry. She thought it was terribly romantic.” 

Crowley scowls at that. “She’s bloody certifiable, She is. Romantic! All the humans nearly vapourised, and she thinks it’s romantic?” 

“What else is there to say Crowley? It’s ineffable,” Aziraphale laughs, and spins around to follow Crowley as he floats. 

“I hope they’ll be all right down there,” Crowley says, looking across the kilometers of empty space to where the tiny planet is slowly orbiting around its luminous red heart.

“They’ll be just fine,” Aziraphale reassures him. “Adam is a good young man, and that’s due in no small part to your influence.” While they may have had their differences, Aziraphale cannot fault Adam’s dedication, and if Crowley’s influence has been anything other than positive, he’s yet to see evidence of it. 

“I know you did your best to balance me out, angel. But there’s no getting around it. They’ve been living on demonic energy for the last ten years. I don’t think they’ve gotten away unscathed.”

“Crowley, out there in space, they weren’t wanting for opportunities to do others ill. But you saw how they chose a better path countless times. There’s no reason to believe that won’t continue.” 

There’s no Heaven or Hell to tie them down any more—but instead of feeling afraid, for the first time Aziraphale actually feels at peace. There is no push and pull of warring factions, no sides to choose. There is only the freedom to do as one wants. 

Aziraphale has spent centuries doing all that he can to honour Her and to fulfil his duty. She knows him completely (as any creator knows their creation), but She does not know what it is like to be him. Crowley does.

Now he finds himself only interested in doing things out of love—the kind of love that comes from discovering someone else, from learning what makes them happy, and how to ease their sadness. For Crowley, who has shared every arduous step at his side—who has been the one constant that kept him tethered to his own soul, lest he be lost to the rank and file of the host. Crowley, who has helped him become more than just a tool for a cause he had no choice but to follow. Crowley, whom he loves.

“All the same angel, I just want to be sure. Someone should be keeping an eye on things,” Crowley grins, and Aziraphale can’t help but marvel at how easily Crowley devastates his hard-won angelic composure with a carefree flash of teeth. Aziraphale feels like he might be at risk of swooning. 

“I know dear,” Aziraphale lets the feeling of rightness wash over him. They’ll have a purpose and a world of humans to return to one day, “But for now, just rest and heal. I promise we’ll go back when you’re ready.”

“This nebula is pretty nice,” Crowley says, relaxing backwards into a cloud of green and red. “Much better than I remember it.”

“I wish I could have been there with you at the beginning.”

“No, angel.” Crowley looks up at him across the void of space, and his eyes burn. “I think that She took my memories of this place when I fell, so I wouldn’t be able to remember anything so beautiful. If She took my memory of this then, well… If I’d known you before then you would have been stolen from me too.” 

Aziraphale covers the distance between them in an instant, wings propelling him in for a gentle landing at Crowley’s side. Up close, the green and red particles of light glint like rubies and emeralds in Crowley’s dark wings. Aziraphale reaches out to stroke his hand down one gleaming ridge of feathers, and Crowley sighs in pleasure.

“Well, it all turned out in the end, I suppose,” Aziraphale says, arms coming to rest on Crowley’s shoulders. 

“To a new world,” Crowley pulls him close.

“To a new world.” 

Aziraphale shares the memory of the bubble of champagne hitting his tongue, the soft swell of the piano, and the warm tangle of Crowley’s fingers entwined with his. 

No one is sure how it got there—another solar system is a long way to fly for even the most determined bird—but on a brand new planet under a rose-gold sky, a nightingale sings.

* * *

Gabriel touches down a moment ahead of Beelzebub and Michael, clutching a large scroll and two smaller documents rolled up under one meaty arm. He jogs through the assembled crowd like a late night host, waving and high-fiving the bewildered souls who are too slow to get out of the way.

"People! Be not afraid!" Gabriel laughs at his own joke and jumps up onto the ramp of the Ark, so he can look down on the masses.

"Who the fuck are you?" One of the astronauts, Steve, shouts.

"I'm the Archangel fucking Gabriel, pal!"

"Sure, and I'm Her Majesty the Queen of England," he shouts back. A rippling murmur runs through the crowd, everyone whispering at once to ask their neighbours if this is the infamous archangel of death who destroyed the Earth. Over the years, the humans have developed a new religion of sorts, and neither Aziraphale nor Adam have done anything to discourage the belief that the Archangel Gabriel is a massive dick.

The crowd starts to back away in fear, except for Steve, Anathema, Newt, the Them and old Shadwell, who is brandishing a bright pink riding crop with a menacing grin (it was a gift from his late wife, and he’s not afraid to use it). 

"Charming, you humans are so funny. Anyway, I'm here to deliver a message from our Lord. If you will turn your attention to this burning bush." Gabriel sets a small tree on fire that was already slightly charred by a spaceship landing on it.

"Humans, it's me, God."

Metatron's voice echoes across the valley, reaching all present.

"I just wanted to congratulate you on your successful journey, and to welcome you to your new home. Be good now, and be sure to address any correspondence or complaints to one of your friendly angelic representatives."

"Is that it?" Steve, having been exposed to Aziraphale’s bumbling ineptitude for almost a decade is no longer all that impressed by anything supernatural. The crowd (emboldened by the word of the Lord) rallies behind him, booing. 

Gabriel shoots Beelzebub an alarmed look. He may have been hoping for something a little more detailed from the Almighty, but quickly becomes resigned to the fact that he won’t be getting it when Metatron mumbles a rushed “God out!”. 

Gabriel takes the large scroll from under his arm, and drops the bottom end over the edge of the ramp, where it unravels in a flurry of fallen paperclips and post-it notes. The scroll itself is digital, and the document is covered with red tracked changes on almost every section.

“Behold, the Great Plan!” Gabriel says, and tries to ignore Anathema as she gathers a few fallen post-its. The topmost one has a to-do list on it that says “Outsource human transport (A&C?), Prepare Alpha Site (send instructions to A), Death Performance Review.”

“We're having to evolve with the times, and move towards a more lean and efficient approach.” Gabriel shouts, for the benefit of the people in the back. 

One of the post-its Anathema picks out of the pile says “Humanity to be ~~exterminated~~ preserved.” She flings it at Gabriel’s face.

“This is bullshit Gabe. Tell your boss, we’re not interested in any more plans, great, ineffable or otherwise!”

"Look, what you’ve got to understand is that I was working from an older version of the document. She didn't send me the latest version until the war was already over. How was I supposed to know she was going to have some crazy new requirements that weren't in the original specifications?” Gabriel backpedals and a bit of his irritation at the mixed messages in his orders bleed into his voice. 

“Not our problem. So what now?” Anathema raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. Gabriel isn’t the type to be intimidated by a human though, no matter how powerful a witch she may be. He carries on, as though she hasn’t spoken.

“Good news! We're implementing a reincarnation model based on Saint Jerome’s proposal. Congrats! No more worrying about Heaven's entry criteria, if you screw up, you just get a do-over. How great is that!" Gabriel says, grinning widely to match the tone of voice that is reminiscent of a used car salesman. "Speaking of screw-ups, where are Aziraphale and Crowley?" he demands, violet eyes searching the rabble for two pairs of wings.

Adam steps forward, jaw set, sword held tightly in one hand.

"You need to leave them alone!"

"Young man, it's very important that I speak to them." Gabriel dials the smarm up to eleven, and adds a pinch of condescension to his tone.

"Whatever you have to say to them, you'll have to wait. They deserve some peace and quiet."

"Fine. Just have them sign this when they get back." Gabriel hands him the two smaller scrolls marked 'Deal Memo'. “She wants to give them their old jobs back, guardians of humanity or some such. I don’t really care.” 

“So you’ll be leaving soon then?” Adam says, meaningfully.

“I’m overseeing Her latest project, so yes, places to go. I’ll get off this little rock, and not a minute too soon.” He wipes at a bit of dust and ash that has fallen on one cashmere-covered shoulder. “Good luck!”

Adam doesn’t sheath the sword until the angels disappear completely from view. That’s the last humanity will see of the more officious celestial types for a long time, and for that, Adam is eternally grateful.


	13. Epilogue

The sun never truly sets on Proxima Centauri B. But there is a delicate glow that diffuses across the countryside every twelve hours or so. The vineyards and orchards across the valley look unearthly at this time of day, and it’s almost as if there’s magic in the air. 

Dog barks a greeting as the old delivery van lights skate across the front of Adam’s house in the dusk. The excited yipping draws the only other occupant of the house outside. 

The truck idles to a stop, and Leslie gets out of the driver’s seat more slowly than he used to. He’s seen a lot in his life, and there’s a strange ache that’s settled into his bones that he can’t quite account for. But he still has a bit of a spring in his step as he wanders up to the front gate where the number four letterbox sits. 

“Hullo, Mr Young!” He waves at Adam when he spots him on the front step. 

“Alright old man? How's the missus?” Adam grins at him. 

“Maud sends her love, she’s sorry she missed you at the town hall the other week. Her back has been a bit troublesome of late,” he says, doffing his cap and flipping over his ancient clipboard. There’s a small postcard tucked into the pouch at the back.

He delicately extracts it and passes the card to Adam. 

“I found it in the back of the truck after I’d done my rounds for the night. Not sure how it got in there - there’s no post office stamp. And it’s not addressed to you, strictly speaking, unless there’s something you want to tell me...” Leslie, as usual fails to contain his curiosity. Something about being in such a small community makes everyone nosier than is strictly polite.

On the front of the card is an old retro travel poster illustrated with a picture of two grey aliens waving against a backdrop an enormous binary star. It simply says “Greetings from Alpha Centauri”. 

When he flips it over, it’s addressed to “The Antichrist, 4 Hogback Lane, New Tadfield, 666” but is otherwise blank. Even so, Adam’s face breaks out into the biggest smile Leslie’s ever seen. As he looks closer at the postcard, flowing lines of black text fill the empty panel on the left of the card. Must be one of those spy-novel things, Leslie thinks. 

“Dear Adam,” he reads aloud for Leslie’s benefit, “We hope this letter finds you well. It’s been some time since we last saw you, and I apologise for our abrupt departure. We trust that you’ve got it all well in hand, and that humanity is flourishing. I wanted to thank you for everything you did for us, and to tell you how happy we are in our home among the stars. Crowley has been much rejuvenated by returning here, to the home he built so long ago. Funny how things work out isn’t it... Keep a bottle of that 2045 New Tadfield Merlot, will you? Just in case. Love, Aziraphale and Uncle AJ.”

Adam grins at the last part, and puts the battered postcard in his pocket for safe-keeping. When Adam looks down the hill to where New Tadfield proper sits nestled in the heart of the valley, Leslie could swear that for just a second, his eyes turned red.

In the center of town there’s an old bookshop that has never opened, but is full of all earth’s greatest literary works (and some of its less great ones). A vintage Bentley is parked out the front, gleaming and as unblemished as the day she came out of the factory. In the darkened back room, behind the towering stacks and the dusty unused furniture, a new and fully stocked wine rack appears. 

One day, at 9:30 AM, or perhaps 10AM, or even as late as 1PM (but not a Tuesday or a Sunday), the shop will open again - and an angel and a demon will celebrate by getting absolutely plastered.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read on for bonus scenes.


	14. Bonus Scene

“You might be wondering what happened to me.” Warlock Dowling reclines in his chair behind a stately black marble desk. 

“It’s quite a story, and I’m not sure you’ll believe me when I tell you.” He pushes his large black-rimmed glasses up his nose. “But I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. You see, when I was young, I had this nanny. Scary, Scottish, you know the type. Anyway. Nanny always told me that one day, I’d grow up to be important.” 

Eric fidgets in his seat. It’s his first meeting with the new management, and he’s keen to make a good impression. Being very good at re-corporating himself has proven useful in recent weeks, and surviving the angels’ attack has conveniently bumped him a lot higher up the chain of command. 

“So imagine my surprise when I wake up one day, and I’m dead. Shocking, I know… I had so much potential, so much life left to live blah, blah, blah.” Eric nods sympathetically. “Well, let me tell you, when I got here this place was a fucking mess. Utter chaos. Serious problems created by middle management if you ask me.”

“Lord Hastur wasn’t much of a people person,” Eric agrees. 

“And would it have killed him to take a bath?” Warlock grins. 

“It did, sir,” Eric says, and Warlock laughs uproariously. Hastur had been as unpleasantly pungent after they doused him in holy water as he was when he was alive. Eric shed no tears at his demise. 

“Now that’s the kind of attitude I’m looking for. Sense of humour,” Warlock says, and Eric sits up a little straighter in his chair. 

“But back to the story,” Warlock continues, “So I make my way through the halls until I find what looks like the staff kitchen. Inside is this dude in a sweet red dinner jacket holding a pack of frozen peas to his forehead. I said “ _What the fuck happened to you_?” and he starts laughing. “ _Got my arse kicked_ ” he says “ _but I’m still here_ ”. Now, you know about the whole switched at birth thing, hey? Well, long story short, it turns out my biological family raised his son. Small world, right? He says he’s looking for a fresh start, and someone with fresh ideas. I said I’ve got plenty of ideas, when do we start. The rest, as they say, is history.” Warlock gestures expansively to the plush office, and the name plaque on the desk which reads _Warlock Dowling - Senior Consultant._

“So what do you say?” He smiles at Eric. “Are you ready to come on board and help me make Hell a better place?” 


End file.
